Marcus couldn’t figure out how to put the condom on right. He unfurled the whole thing and then realized that no matter how much he stretched out the base of the latex, it was going to kill as he tried to put it on. This was the only condom present in Jeanne’s dorm room at the moment.
“We don’t have to do it,” Jeanne said, “We can just do a few other things.” Then she kissed him.
Marcus was just months away from his 21st birthday. He was not a virgin, but he could count his sexual encounters on one hand. Each time he had managed to get into bed naked with a girl, it would be the last time for that girl. This was not due to any deficiencies on Marcus’s part, but by his unwillingness to ever talk to anybody he had been intimate with after the fact.
He was a college student and he made good grades and he had a good internship with Touch & Go. He was acutely aware that everything which was presently solid in his life was nothing which was going to last. He was only going to be with Touch & Go through the summer, and they were not going to offer him any paying positions. He might have been able to handle the business end of a major-indie record label, but he would never possess the musical talent or the rapport with musicians necessary to become a player in the field. The problem was that he always thought he knew more than whoever was giving him orders. This led to a lot of talk about insubordination and smartass-edness. How Marcus never talked about anything that was actually relevant. How he was incredibly selfish, and somehow nobody would call him out on it. How his internship was limited to six months for a reason.
After the semi-sex, Jeanne and Marcus said little, kissed again, and tried to fall asleep.
In the morning, Marcus was the first one up, and showering. Jeanne was still asleep when he got out. He wrote her a note before he went home:
“Thanks for everything, it was a great night, (sorry for my incompetence!), you’re an incredible girl, have a nice day. –M “
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Trial
Spencer did not wake up in Jamaica. He woke up next to Missy. It was 7:30, and his alarm clock was going off. He had slept for about 26 minutes.
Missy moaned. Then she said, “Do you want me to go with you?”
“Yes, I want you to be there when they send me away.”
When they were having breakfast a little later, they saw Charles, and he said, “Do you want me to go to the courthouse?”
“Yes, please come along with us. It’s going to be a memorable experience.”
“Don’t you think it’s something to forget?” Missy asked. “I mean, this is the kind of thing that blows over, obviously, it’s not like you killed somebody.”
“It’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done.”
They ate their breakfast in silence.
On the train ride down to the court house, the three of them sat together. There was not much conversation. The train was mostly empty. When they got off at the court house stop, the conversation began.
“So, like, what’s going to happen do you think?” Spencer asked. “What’s the procedure for this?”
“I think you’ll stand when they ask you to rise, and walk forward, and ask you how you plead.” Charles reasoned.
“I thought they only ask you how you plead if you have a lawyer.” Missy thought aloud.
“I don’t have a lawyer! What should I do?”
“I think you should just say you did it, and you’re sorry, and you want to move on with your normal life as soon as possible.” Charles reasoned. “That sounds like a good answer!” Missy enthused.
When they walked up to the steps of the courthouse, Spencer asked if the two of them would hold him as they walked in together. The walked in and sat in one of the rows of benches. They sat for forty-five minutes and listened to other cases, mostly DUIs from the night before. Finally, the judge called Spencer.
“Blackwell, Spencer?”
He rose and said, “Present.”
“You’ve been charged with misdemeanor possession of marijuana, how do you plead?”
“Guilty.”
“You’re sentenced to six months in Cook County Jail. You may make an appeal if you wish.”
“When?” “You can see the bailiff afterwards and she will give you the forms necessary for appeal.”
“How long do I have to make the appeal?”
“That’s to be covered by the bailiff.”
The judge got up and left, and Spencer went over to the bailiff.
“Am I going to jail, or is it possible to get out of this?”
“You’re going away, sorry. But you can try to appeal if you want to. Nobody ever gets it though.”
“Why not?” She leaned in closer and whispered in his ear, “Money.”
“Did you really have to whisper that?”
“I don’t want to offend anybody here.”
Spencer got the forms from the bailiff and he and Missy and Charles left the courthouse and went back towards the train station.
Missy moaned. Then she said, “Do you want me to go with you?”
“Yes, I want you to be there when they send me away.”
When they were having breakfast a little later, they saw Charles, and he said, “Do you want me to go to the courthouse?”
“Yes, please come along with us. It’s going to be a memorable experience.”
“Don’t you think it’s something to forget?” Missy asked. “I mean, this is the kind of thing that blows over, obviously, it’s not like you killed somebody.”
“It’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done.”
They ate their breakfast in silence.
On the train ride down to the court house, the three of them sat together. There was not much conversation. The train was mostly empty. When they got off at the court house stop, the conversation began.
“So, like, what’s going to happen do you think?” Spencer asked. “What’s the procedure for this?”
“I think you’ll stand when they ask you to rise, and walk forward, and ask you how you plead.” Charles reasoned.
“I thought they only ask you how you plead if you have a lawyer.” Missy thought aloud.
“I don’t have a lawyer! What should I do?”
“I think you should just say you did it, and you’re sorry, and you want to move on with your normal life as soon as possible.” Charles reasoned. “That sounds like a good answer!” Missy enthused.
When they walked up to the steps of the courthouse, Spencer asked if the two of them would hold him as they walked in together. The walked in and sat in one of the rows of benches. They sat for forty-five minutes and listened to other cases, mostly DUIs from the night before. Finally, the judge called Spencer.
“Blackwell, Spencer?”
He rose and said, “Present.”
“You’ve been charged with misdemeanor possession of marijuana, how do you plead?”
“Guilty.”
“You’re sentenced to six months in Cook County Jail. You may make an appeal if you wish.”
“When?” “You can see the bailiff afterwards and she will give you the forms necessary for appeal.”
“How long do I have to make the appeal?”
“That’s to be covered by the bailiff.”
The judge got up and left, and Spencer went over to the bailiff.
“Am I going to jail, or is it possible to get out of this?”
“You’re going away, sorry. But you can try to appeal if you want to. Nobody ever gets it though.”
“Why not?” She leaned in closer and whispered in his ear, “Money.”
“Did you really have to whisper that?”
“I don’t want to offend anybody here.”
Spencer got the forms from the bailiff and he and Missy and Charles left the courthouse and went back towards the train station.
Spencer's Parents
His parents didn’t know what happened. They were living in South Beach. They were reclining on the sand while Spencer was in the courthouse.
Mrs. Blackwell looked over the ocean.
“Oh, it’s such a beautiful day!”
Mr. Blackwell responded by sighing pleasurably.
“You know,” he began, “I was just thinking about going—“
His cell phone began playing the chorus of some tropical-themed pop song.
“Spencer, what’s up?”
“Well, something.”
“What is it?”
“Well, I might be going to jail for six months, unless I can make an appeal.”
“For what!”
“Marijuana possession.”
“You idiot! How could you ever do something so stupid?!”
“It fell out of my bag.”
‘Ah!”
“They say it helps if you have money.”
Mr. Blackwell calmed himself down.
“How much money do you think?”
“Based on what the bailiff said, I don’t know, a hundred thousand.”
“Jesus Christ! Is this bribery of the legal system?”
“No, it’s just to prove that I’ll rehabilitate myself, go to rehab, and stop using drugs.”
“That’s laughable.”
“Come on, you’ve got to respect a system that won’t clog up their jails with potheads and actually give me a second chance without the fear of losing my anal virginity.”
“You do some more research on this appeal, and you tell me when I need to be there, you dig?”
“I dig.”
“Now, your mother and I have to get back to our tanning and swimming. You better be getting back to me soon on this.”
“By the end of the week.”
“I’m not proud of you.”
“I wouldn’t be either.”
“Goodbye.”
Mr. Blackwell hung up the phone and Mrs. Blackwell asked what was the matter and Mr. Blackwell said that they’d be taking a little trip in a little while.
Mrs. Blackwell looked over the ocean.
“Oh, it’s such a beautiful day!”
Mr. Blackwell responded by sighing pleasurably.
“You know,” he began, “I was just thinking about going—“
His cell phone began playing the chorus of some tropical-themed pop song.
“Spencer, what’s up?”
“Well, something.”
“What is it?”
“Well, I might be going to jail for six months, unless I can make an appeal.”
“For what!”
“Marijuana possession.”
“You idiot! How could you ever do something so stupid?!”
“It fell out of my bag.”
‘Ah!”
“They say it helps if you have money.”
Mr. Blackwell calmed himself down.
“How much money do you think?”
“Based on what the bailiff said, I don’t know, a hundred thousand.”
“Jesus Christ! Is this bribery of the legal system?”
“No, it’s just to prove that I’ll rehabilitate myself, go to rehab, and stop using drugs.”
“That’s laughable.”
“Come on, you’ve got to respect a system that won’t clog up their jails with potheads and actually give me a second chance without the fear of losing my anal virginity.”
“You do some more research on this appeal, and you tell me when I need to be there, you dig?”
“I dig.”
“Now, your mother and I have to get back to our tanning and swimming. You better be getting back to me soon on this.”
“By the end of the week.”
“I’m not proud of you.”
“I wouldn’t be either.”
“Goodbye.”
Mr. Blackwell hung up the phone and Mrs. Blackwell asked what was the matter and Mr. Blackwell said that they’d be taking a little trip in a little while.
Love in the Head, Not Bed
Penelope lay next to Luther now, a morning after lying next to Ted. Luther was still asleep, but she could not will herself to go back to it. She got out of his bed and walked around his apartment. She went to his kitchen and started brewing coffee. She sat down on the couch and waited for the coffee to drip.
She was thinking about what she was going to say when Luther woke up:
“Last night was the most fun I’ve had since I can remember.”
“You’re the best—I just thought you should know.”
“I want to go shopping today. You want to come with?”
“I made coffee for us, I hope it’s okay.”
“You’re so sexy just waking up in the morning.”
“Hey baby (followed by a kiss).”
“Do you think Spencer’s done with his trial already?”
“I’m not quite sure, but I think I should get going.”
“Do you know this guy Ted? I slept with him last night.”
“I wonder what happened with Ireena and Rory.”
The coffee was done, and a beeper went off, which Penelope hurried over towards as not to wake up Luther. She pushed the right button and poured herself a cup and sat back down on the couch alone. She was bored, so she opened up the apartment door, grabbed the Sunday paper, started reading the Style section. After about fifteen minutes she was wired from the coffee, and she started giggling at the main article of the section—a piece on the next fashion trend to come. The newspaper called it Nu Grunge, they explained that it was exactly the same as the original grunge, except this time it was to be purposefully affected, not actually lived, and all of the original Generation X kids were parents now, and they had to keep some remnant of their sordid pasts. They ditched the drugs, they ditched the malaise, but they kept the clothes. So all of the old grunge wear was popular again, but only if it was original, used, and if it was new, recently woven and tailored, well, high school kids would be buying it, and here was another cycle to last another fifteen years. It was truly up to the poor to make the styles of the rich, Penelope decided.
Luther emerged quietly from his bedroom.
“I made some coffee, I hope it’s okay.”
“You are awesome.” Luther said as he went to fill up.
They drank their coffee together.
“So, what kind of research are going to do?”
“Today? I’m just going to fuck around today. No real work to be done.”
“Sound nice. I have a shift starting at 4.”
“Oh man, well you should get baked with me before you have to be ready for work.”
Penelope laughed and then said, “Okay.”
She was thinking about what she was going to say when Luther woke up:
“Last night was the most fun I’ve had since I can remember.”
“You’re the best—I just thought you should know.”
“I want to go shopping today. You want to come with?”
“I made coffee for us, I hope it’s okay.”
“You’re so sexy just waking up in the morning.”
“Hey baby (followed by a kiss).”
“Do you think Spencer’s done with his trial already?”
“I’m not quite sure, but I think I should get going.”
“Do you know this guy Ted? I slept with him last night.”
“I wonder what happened with Ireena and Rory.”
The coffee was done, and a beeper went off, which Penelope hurried over towards as not to wake up Luther. She pushed the right button and poured herself a cup and sat back down on the couch alone. She was bored, so she opened up the apartment door, grabbed the Sunday paper, started reading the Style section. After about fifteen minutes she was wired from the coffee, and she started giggling at the main article of the section—a piece on the next fashion trend to come. The newspaper called it Nu Grunge, they explained that it was exactly the same as the original grunge, except this time it was to be purposefully affected, not actually lived, and all of the original Generation X kids were parents now, and they had to keep some remnant of their sordid pasts. They ditched the drugs, they ditched the malaise, but they kept the clothes. So all of the old grunge wear was popular again, but only if it was original, used, and if it was new, recently woven and tailored, well, high school kids would be buying it, and here was another cycle to last another fifteen years. It was truly up to the poor to make the styles of the rich, Penelope decided.
Luther emerged quietly from his bedroom.
“I made some coffee, I hope it’s okay.”
“You are awesome.” Luther said as he went to fill up.
They drank their coffee together.
“So, what kind of research are going to do?”
“Today? I’m just going to fuck around today. No real work to be done.”
“Sound nice. I have a shift starting at 4.”
“Oh man, well you should get baked with me before you have to be ready for work.”
Penelope laughed and then said, “Okay.”
Painless Euthanasia
Ireena was deep in the tendrils of her brain. Basic motor functions occurred to her, but higher consciousness eluded her. She was confused. Why was she walking through an elevated pedestrian walkway on Mars? Why were there only a couple other random people on the planet with her? Why couldn’t she ask them what they were supposed to do? They were so occupied with their business, would they even care that she was a fellow human? There were Martians there too, of course, and they had huge heads and ridiculously skinny bodies. Ireena was scared to talk to the Martians, even though they might be easier to communicate with. She kept walking down the endless elevated pedestrian walkway, which Martians also used. The walkway must have stretched on for hundreds of miles, and she couldn’t see anybody as far as she looked ahead or behind. Once a figure came into view, it would take them about ten minutes to cross paths. Each time she crossed a figure’s path, she would have the urge to say something, but this was all so confusing, what would she ask? She decided to ask, “Why are we on Mars?” The next human that walked past her was asked that question, and he replied, “Because Earth is overpopulated, duh, do you have amnesia or something?” The next figure was a Martian, walking behind her. She slowed down enough to let the alien catch up to her. It walked alongside her without any cognizance of her, until she started thinking, “I wish I could talk to you and I wish I could get some answers but you’re a Martian and you’re probably mad that we’re here at all in the first place so I understand but if you would be so kind as to tell me what you’ve learned, how you deal with the fact that you have to share your planet now, I mean , are you secretly thinking about when you’re going to kill us all or do you have any new answers to the questions we’ve never been able to figure out? People all treat me like I’m an idiot here, but I really don’t know how I got here, so maybe you can explain just when all these humans started emigrating through space and that would really clear a lot up for me.” At which point the Martian looked over at her, its face unmoved, then looked straight ahead and continued walking. Ireena kept pace with the Martian, and continued to attempt to communicate, but it kept moving faster exponentially. Finally, it turned around, a safe distance ahead of her, and said, “You know that.”
She woke up shocked from her dream and looked at her clock. 11:17.
She repeated, “Can’t forget the dream, can’t forget the dream,” as she moved over to her desk, switched on her computer, and hurriedly typed out all the details she remembered: elevated pedestrian walkway, humans on Mars, Martians communicating telepathically and vocally, reaffirming what she already knows to be the truth.
“As usual, I learn nothing new about myself,” She said aloud in her bedroom to herself. She moved towards her bathroom, turned on the shower, and she shut the door. Ireena had no roommate.
She woke up shocked from her dream and looked at her clock. 11:17.
She repeated, “Can’t forget the dream, can’t forget the dream,” as she moved over to her desk, switched on her computer, and hurriedly typed out all the details she remembered: elevated pedestrian walkway, humans on Mars, Martians communicating telepathically and vocally, reaffirming what she already knows to be the truth.
“As usual, I learn nothing new about myself,” She said aloud in her bedroom to herself. She moved towards her bathroom, turned on the shower, and she shut the door. Ireena had no roommate.
Impasse
The consequences of these days weighs heavily on Rory, for some reason. He woke up after Ireena, in his own apartment, in which he had no roommate either. It was Sunday morning. He read the newspaper. He drank coffee. He watched inane Sunday morning TV. He smoked a joint by himself. He wandered around his apartment laughing to himself. He went to his CD collection and admired it. He went to his book collection, and he took out a couple books of philosophy he intended to rifle through stoned. The meaning of the text never revealed itself to him in this state, but he found it much easier to draw his own interpretations, as improperly sensed as they might be. All too often, he came up with a perverted interpretation, which he would then laugh off, telling himself, “God I’m fucked up.”
He went outside his apartment and walked around his neighborhood. He went to a record store and bought a couple albums he used to own, but that had been stolen from him. To be sure—Either/Or and Pinkerton. Once he had these albums again, he went back home, and listened to them, rolling another joint between albums. He almost started to laugh and cry at the same time.
It was dark now, and almost dinner time. The day had rushed by without general activity. Rory felt like calling up Luther, or Charles to ask for advice, but then he realized that neither of their advice was to be taken. Luther would tell him to lie, and Charles would tell him to seize the day, which was at this point, far too uncool for Rory. Seizing the day required something to say. He already said everything he needed to say to Ireena.
Rory suddenly got depressed and forgot about eating dinner. He tried to go to bed, but he lay awake for four hours until his body gave out. After the first hour, he tried to focus on something to help him sleep. After the second hour, he started to get mad at himself for not being able to fall asleep. This led to a barrage of insults directed at himself, inside his mind, occasionally breaking out audibly from his mouth, which probably made him sound like he was schizophrenic to his upstairs and downstairs neighbors, whose walls were quite thin. After the third hour, he reached full scale suicidal depression. He thought about how he couldn’t do anything right, not even sleep. He thought about how Ireena would never have cause to like him. He thought about Spencer going to jail for weed, and about how easily it could happen to him. He thought about how much fun everything was the night before, everyone in his apartment. He thought about whether or not Luther had gotten with Penelope. Of course, he knew the back story, and he was worried about violence. He thought about his cousin, and how he was just starting to admire his flippancy towards the world. He thought about how much he hated both of his parents and his brothers and sisters. He thought Marcus was an interesting figure to make an appearance the night before. He suddenly wanted to puke. A fresh stream of self-criticisms came flooding out. He felt like he was trying to shake out of his skin. He couldn’t stop fidgeting. He thought about masturbating but decided that took too much effort at this point. He pulled on his hair a little bit, tossed off the comforter, looked at the clock, 3:34 AM. The pressure to fall asleep early enough in order to wake up for work made him want to kill himself. Rory considered this to be a pathetic reason for suicide.
But if you were one of his upstairs or downstairs neighbors, through the thin walls, you might have heard him saying things like:
“End it, end it, just fucking end it, I don’t want it anymore.”
He went outside his apartment and walked around his neighborhood. He went to a record store and bought a couple albums he used to own, but that had been stolen from him. To be sure—Either/Or and Pinkerton. Once he had these albums again, he went back home, and listened to them, rolling another joint between albums. He almost started to laugh and cry at the same time.
It was dark now, and almost dinner time. The day had rushed by without general activity. Rory felt like calling up Luther, or Charles to ask for advice, but then he realized that neither of their advice was to be taken. Luther would tell him to lie, and Charles would tell him to seize the day, which was at this point, far too uncool for Rory. Seizing the day required something to say. He already said everything he needed to say to Ireena.
Rory suddenly got depressed and forgot about eating dinner. He tried to go to bed, but he lay awake for four hours until his body gave out. After the first hour, he tried to focus on something to help him sleep. After the second hour, he started to get mad at himself for not being able to fall asleep. This led to a barrage of insults directed at himself, inside his mind, occasionally breaking out audibly from his mouth, which probably made him sound like he was schizophrenic to his upstairs and downstairs neighbors, whose walls were quite thin. After the third hour, he reached full scale suicidal depression. He thought about how he couldn’t do anything right, not even sleep. He thought about how Ireena would never have cause to like him. He thought about Spencer going to jail for weed, and about how easily it could happen to him. He thought about how much fun everything was the night before, everyone in his apartment. He thought about whether or not Luther had gotten with Penelope. Of course, he knew the back story, and he was worried about violence. He thought about his cousin, and how he was just starting to admire his flippancy towards the world. He thought about how much he hated both of his parents and his brothers and sisters. He thought Marcus was an interesting figure to make an appearance the night before. He suddenly wanted to puke. A fresh stream of self-criticisms came flooding out. He felt like he was trying to shake out of his skin. He couldn’t stop fidgeting. He thought about masturbating but decided that took too much effort at this point. He pulled on his hair a little bit, tossed off the comforter, looked at the clock, 3:34 AM. The pressure to fall asleep early enough in order to wake up for work made him want to kill himself. Rory considered this to be a pathetic reason for suicide.
But if you were one of his upstairs or downstairs neighbors, through the thin walls, you might have heard him saying things like:
“End it, end it, just fucking end it, I don’t want it anymore.”
In the Deep of the Night
Spencer had locked himself in his room for the night, and Missy had stayed with him. She was helping him hash out his plan for appeal. She thought she had suddenly found her calling the midst of Spencer’s personal chaos. To be Spencer’s lawyer, she decided, would be a great honor. She would love to get up in front of a jury, speak eloquently about Spencer’s worth as a human being, explain to the judge how a light sentence was to be deserved, that this was an issue that warranted serious thought and contemplation regarding the ways in which we are supposed to use our lives. He did not deserve to go to jail and throw away a small portion of his life. He deserved to think about what he had done, and decide it was bad.
Charles was in the same apartment, but he hadn’t seen Spencer in at least three hours. He was all alone in his apartment living room. The TV was on mute. An old movie about bonding with the common man. Its dialogue was replaced by a Half Japanese album, which Charles found exceedingly hilarious. After the album ended, and it was very quiet in the apartment, coming up on 4 AM, he went out on his balcony and looked out at the street. He sat down outside, still mildly warm, and he thought about what he could do tomorrow. He was still buzzed from the hash he had just been smoking. He thought maybe he should go back to school. Maybe he should join a volunteer fire department. Maybe he should play more basketball again. Maybe he should try to write again. Maybe he should visit his grandmother. Maybe he should take a long trip away. Maybe he should stop being such a dork around girls. Maybe he wasn’t young anymore, and he had to think about the future now instead of the past. But what could he possibly do in his future? He possessed intelligence, but a negligible degree of it. He possessed no special skills. He possessed a persona that everyone he had ever met considered caustic and unworthy of attention.
However, no suicidal thoughts permeated Charles’s brain. He was not going to end his life prematurely when there was so much left undone. But then he thought, “What is left to be done? Isn’t everything predetermined anyways? Whatever is going to happen is going to happen and I am not going to consider myself any kind of catalyst to this world. Most people are dead to me anyways. Everyone else sucks, and I don’t think that’s a childish thing to believe, everyone does in fact suck. I can’t believe how many people watch TV endlessly. I can’t believe how many people love to pretend like they’re alcoholics, but then blush the second you take a drink in the early hours of the day. I can’t believe how all the best music is always ignored in favor of mush from three years ago that’s been played a thousand times on every radio station owned by Clear Channel. I hate American Idol. I hate how Grammys are handed out to non-musicians who don’t even have any vision, just somebody else’s. I hate how fucking virulent I can be. People suck. I hate the way they drive. I hate the way they walk down the street, walking their dogs, or alongside their partners, looking concerned, laughing about things that are safe to laugh at, believing in our homeland, getting McDonald’s when they’re lazy, which is always. I hate the way some people have so many kids, like they think extra kids are going to ward off death or something, or make it less painful. I hate the government most of all, and how it supposedly aims to protect, but how, hey, look at me, I am vulnerable. I am very vulnerable right now, and anybody could walk in and see me out here on this porch and they’d be ready to hug me, or slap me, either way, I hate people. The only good people are the people that are so drugged out of their minds that they can’t express a thought of their own. The worst people are the people that talk all the time, like they have something important to say, but it’s really just another vision of evil and dominance. Oh my God I can’t take this shit anymore. Everybody’s so fucked up, I can’t believe it. Selfish like nobody’s business. Have I ever been a selfish person? It’s not fair to ask myself that. At times, I will admit, I have been selfish. On the whole, I have been extremely unselfish though, and what has it gotten me? More people think I don’t know what I’m doing because I don’t order people around to do things, I haven’t climbed the ladder to success high enough. I have no aspirations for the American Dream, and that’s so fucked up to these people that they can’t find a shred of worth in me because I’m ‘different.’ All I want out of life at this point is just some fucking peace, some quietude, some contemplation, reading, writing, going to films, museums, art, art, music, architectural study, spectacles, spectacles, and I want to be responsible for one of the many forms, I want to put my name on it, and I want to be remembered for what I did that was good, not what was bad, though to be honest I can only justify everything I’ve done that’s bad but there is no way to qualitatively express what I have ever done that is good. I haven’t received a compliment in three years. I get the dirtiest looks in the world. People look at me and they fear the potential in me. I’m only beginning to relish the thought of being an outsider.”
Charles was in the same apartment, but he hadn’t seen Spencer in at least three hours. He was all alone in his apartment living room. The TV was on mute. An old movie about bonding with the common man. Its dialogue was replaced by a Half Japanese album, which Charles found exceedingly hilarious. After the album ended, and it was very quiet in the apartment, coming up on 4 AM, he went out on his balcony and looked out at the street. He sat down outside, still mildly warm, and he thought about what he could do tomorrow. He was still buzzed from the hash he had just been smoking. He thought maybe he should go back to school. Maybe he should join a volunteer fire department. Maybe he should play more basketball again. Maybe he should try to write again. Maybe he should visit his grandmother. Maybe he should take a long trip away. Maybe he should stop being such a dork around girls. Maybe he wasn’t young anymore, and he had to think about the future now instead of the past. But what could he possibly do in his future? He possessed intelligence, but a negligible degree of it. He possessed no special skills. He possessed a persona that everyone he had ever met considered caustic and unworthy of attention.
However, no suicidal thoughts permeated Charles’s brain. He was not going to end his life prematurely when there was so much left undone. But then he thought, “What is left to be done? Isn’t everything predetermined anyways? Whatever is going to happen is going to happen and I am not going to consider myself any kind of catalyst to this world. Most people are dead to me anyways. Everyone else sucks, and I don’t think that’s a childish thing to believe, everyone does in fact suck. I can’t believe how many people watch TV endlessly. I can’t believe how many people love to pretend like they’re alcoholics, but then blush the second you take a drink in the early hours of the day. I can’t believe how all the best music is always ignored in favor of mush from three years ago that’s been played a thousand times on every radio station owned by Clear Channel. I hate American Idol. I hate how Grammys are handed out to non-musicians who don’t even have any vision, just somebody else’s. I hate how fucking virulent I can be. People suck. I hate the way they drive. I hate the way they walk down the street, walking their dogs, or alongside their partners, looking concerned, laughing about things that are safe to laugh at, believing in our homeland, getting McDonald’s when they’re lazy, which is always. I hate the way some people have so many kids, like they think extra kids are going to ward off death or something, or make it less painful. I hate the government most of all, and how it supposedly aims to protect, but how, hey, look at me, I am vulnerable. I am very vulnerable right now, and anybody could walk in and see me out here on this porch and they’d be ready to hug me, or slap me, either way, I hate people. The only good people are the people that are so drugged out of their minds that they can’t express a thought of their own. The worst people are the people that talk all the time, like they have something important to say, but it’s really just another vision of evil and dominance. Oh my God I can’t take this shit anymore. Everybody’s so fucked up, I can’t believe it. Selfish like nobody’s business. Have I ever been a selfish person? It’s not fair to ask myself that. At times, I will admit, I have been selfish. On the whole, I have been extremely unselfish though, and what has it gotten me? More people think I don’t know what I’m doing because I don’t order people around to do things, I haven’t climbed the ladder to success high enough. I have no aspirations for the American Dream, and that’s so fucked up to these people that they can’t find a shred of worth in me because I’m ‘different.’ All I want out of life at this point is just some fucking peace, some quietude, some contemplation, reading, writing, going to films, museums, art, art, music, architectural study, spectacles, spectacles, and I want to be responsible for one of the many forms, I want to put my name on it, and I want to be remembered for what I did that was good, not what was bad, though to be honest I can only justify everything I’ve done that’s bad but there is no way to qualitatively express what I have ever done that is good. I haven’t received a compliment in three years. I get the dirtiest looks in the world. People look at me and they fear the potential in me. I’m only beginning to relish the thought of being an outsider.”
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