So There I was
or
Running Parallel
or
A Manic-Depressive's Guide to the Military
If you read the WarBlogs, then you will see where I got some of the ideas, but this is strictly fiction.
If there is a name in here that is sort of like yours, that is because I suck at thinking up new names and I'm too lazy to scan the phone book. If there is a character that reminds you of yourself, don't worry, it's not you. There is only one character in the book that closely resembles a real person and that's me. And I'm come across as the worst human being alive. In fact, the main character had a different name for a good many months, but I realized it would be disingenuous to pretend it wasn't me, so I stopped pretending. Also, I felt bad making anyone else look like that big of a piece of shit. And it's fiction so who gives a crap?
I'm not so sure it's all that good, but it is a thing. It's might merely seem like a stumbling, rambling stream of consciousness, but I assure you it all leads somewhere. As any drunk worth his cirrhosis will tell you, if you have to go anywhere, it's best to go there stumbling, rambling, and streaming (pee). Feel free to let me know what you think (lanceuppercutt@gmail.com). I've included a few short reviews to goad you into reading.
"It's like a modern-day Profiles In Courage. With dick jokes."
-Your Mom
"I laughed, I cried, I ate some chips and spilled my soda."
-Oprah
"I wish I had this guy's eye for literature. Or, more accurately, his eyes. Seriously, I'm fucking blind."
-Homer
"Alcohol: the cause of, and solution to, all of life's problems."
-Homer Simpson
Anyway, here is the first chapter:
Chapter One
*
The phone rang.
It rang that stupid, incessant, chiming ring. It rang needles into my brain. It was the first thing I’d felt in a thousand years, and I needed to kill it. I rolled over. She was gone. Perfect. Who would be calling this… late? The phone’s screen glowed coldly in annoying, shining defiance to the warm comfortable dark.
Great.
“Hello, this is One-Stop. You’re alerted. Would you like a meal?”
“Nine small golf.”
“Thanks. See you in an hour.”
I lay there groggy, hung-over, and dreading the day. The empty space next to me smelled sweet, and I was naked, alone. My friends had been calling all morning to find out what happened with the girl and me.
All in all it was a pretty typical Wednesday afternoon.
The fog started to clear. There were six messages; they helped piece together the previous night. Start with the edges and work your way in. It began with invitations to the game, then to the bars, and finally an angry one, which is the only one worth hearing now.
So:
“Hey man, this is Graig.”
Somehow he even pronounced it differently. Why couldn’t he just spell his name like normal?
“I need you to call me back. What you pulled with Susan last night was pretty dick.”
Susan. That’s right.
“I know bros before hoes and all, but still, she was out with me. Whatever, we need to talk it out so we can hug it out.”
Someday I would have to stop hanging out with people from work. These morons set hair on end, but for now I needed the excuse to drink.
Time to get up.
I pulled the comforter off my legs and lethargically swung my feet off the bed. The old wooden floor creaked beneath me as I walked to the bathroom to turn on the shower. The large spout rained cold on my hand. I’d let it warm up. I flexed for the mirror and told myself I looked as strong as a thoroughbred, though in actuality I looked closer to the glue factory than the Triple Crown. My lean, pale body had reasonable musculature, but my face was wrinkled and even spotted if you ventured to look close enough. I was old for my age. So I wiped away some crusted drool and headed for the kitchen.
Various bottles and half-finished drinks littered the kitchen counter. There was a dusting of pink powder next to the wine glass stained with the remnants of merlot and lipstick.
My insurance policy.
The powder was nitric oxide. It was an argnine workout supplement that rushed blood and nutrients to the muscles during particularly strenuous exercise. It helped build muscle, made veins bulge, and gave you unbelievable focus. And it worked on the same principle as Viagra. Most people would have seen the need for a sexual performance enhancer at 25 as some type of sign that their relationships might just be a little dysfunctional, but I was blind to that. Or maybe I was just going blind. What were those side effects again?
There was nothing of value in the fridge, but there was enough to mix a gimlet on the counter, so I gave in to the desire that brought me to the kitchen in the first place. I poured gin and sweetened limejuice and then splashed some water on. Finally I added an ice cube from the freezer and some more gin. I mixed the concoction with a finger and sipped my breakfast. It was good, not as good as the ones I started the night prior with, but it was washing the stale taste from my mouth and the mossy film from my teeth.
Jeff showed early the night before; the Sonics were out of it by the half -- what a way to start the season. I had refused his invitation to the game because of the effort required to leave the apartment, so he showed up to punish my indolence by drinking all my beer. I had decided early to attack the Bombay. We whiled away the time generally wasting our minds and our youths. We played video games, talked sports, and knocked back drinks until we couldn’t see straight. After a while it had finally become a suitable time to go out to the bars, that time being whenever women would be there too. It was a short walk to the first place, a deplorable country-western dive where the girls slinging the drinks spent half the time dancing on the bar instead of getting you drunk, but that’s where Jeff wanted to go.
I knew walking up to the place that I would have to get blue-blind-paralytic-drunk to make the ensuing hours enjoyable. The bar was packed with large, sweaty guys watching a mechanical bull grimace under the strain of multiple sorority heifers. Stickers plastered the joint, a sort of redneck wallpaper. “One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Floor”, “Lance Uppercut Drank Here”, “Eddie Would Go”. Carrie Underwood and the like blared through the door, passed the waiting line and mingled with the smell of desperation on the way out to the street. Once inside, Jeff and I caught up with Brent and his friend who was a teacher or a student or something else that didn’t require much real thought. The nameless kid brought nothing to the table. Meanwhile, the half-naked bartenders danced around the taps to that god-awful country song from the poker commercials. Despite the southern music, each of them was about twenty pounds north of hot. The one nearest to us was familiar with Brent and his friend, and kept thrusting her Daisy Dukes in their direction while she implored along with the music to ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy.’
Unfortunately the song ended before I could find a six-shooter to splatter my brains across the bar. You can’t win ‘em all. The bartender climbed down and asked, “What can I get you cowboys?” Clever. I wondered if a full bathtub and a plugged-in toaster were too much to ask. Regardless, I started chatting her up while she idly played with a coaster. I was funny and she was dumb -- it was a great combination. I hoped that if I was lucky, I could make jokes at her expense without her understanding and still maybe pilfer some free drinks out of the deal. We both chatted and laughed at her stupidity and before I knew it she was emptying a bottle of Jack directly into my mouth as the mob cheered us on. At that moment I stopped enjoying the drink and wondered how many times a night this happened. Was it sanitary? I reasoned that alcohol was a disinfectant so I should be fine.
After the little show, I needed a break. I lied to Jeff, Brent, and the fun-sponge that I was going to get out of the noise to check my messages. Outside, I was surprised to find that despite my faked interest there actually were messages waiting for me. The only new one was from Graig, a loathsome, smarmy sonofabitch from work. Graig was at Axis having drinks with a few other -- decidedly more tolerable -- guys from the office. I reasoned that the ten-block hike was worth it since there was a better chance to meet some girls who weren’t on payroll and possibly even literate.
I walked briskly up the street, my breath fogging faintly in the air. The city and I languished together in our early winter. Counting my drinks to that point, I wondered why I still felt nothing. That meant my tolerance was finally back to normal. I’d been out of the game too long with those trips. Work was killing me.
As I arrived at Axis my phone rang. Jeff was calling, no doubt wondering to where I had run off. I clicked a button sending him straight to voicemail, but before I got the phone back in my jeans there was a second call, this one from Brent. That too was ignored. It’s not that I really wanted to ditch them, but if I stayed at the last place Toby Keith -- or a whiskey bottle -- would spell the end of me. I wanted to kill myself on my own terms. My throat burned and my hands were numb; it was time for another drink.
Inside, the bar smelled like cheap Midori cologne. I guessed correctly that the stench should be attributed that to the nearby table of grownup frat boys talking to the divorcees. Those douchey guys were probably investment bankers, what with their expensive drinks, good looks, and pressed suits. I hated and envied them all at once. The amber-lit sidewall opposite the bar was filled with burly mountains of muscle topped by dreadlocks -- Seahawks. Trashy women flocked to the men who were jubilantly buying up the stocks of whatever trendy champagne was currently the most expensive. These football players got to play games for millions of dollars a year, the adoration of men and women alike was just an added bonus. I envied them as well.
Hands clamped down onto my shoulders, “We’re all on the other side of the bar, jackass,” someone shouted into my ear before I could properly murder them for touching me.
Graig. I turned around to see that fat face grinning ear to ear beneath those beady eyes and that unfortunately-thin, unfortunately-styled blonde hair. Judging from the smile, Graig had gotten over slight I had made at his expense earlier. The intercom was one of the only diversions at the office.
“Graig Osmond to the conference room. Graig, you are needed in the conference room, stat. I think Dr. Bosley is here to check your donor area.”
“You gotta meet my new girl Susan,” Graig smiled.
Graig was excited. He wanted about to rub it in. How hot was she? We made our way through the surprisingly crowded lounge toward the rest of their group. How many lies and roofie coladas did it take for Graig to reel this girl in? Who’s even sure it was a girl? Graig would probably take attention from a crossdressing Panamanian crack whore as long as “her” wanking hand hadn’t be cleaved by a previous John. I guess the crack whore would probably have to be deaf to make things work though, considering the never-ending vomit of uninteresting tripe spewing from Graig’s lips. Passing the side bar, Amos asked me what I wanted to drink. Damn, it was good to have bartenders as friends. He grabbed a bottle from the top shelf, the lip of said shelf informing me that Lance Uppercut drank here as well. Great, one more person ahead of me on the liver transplant list. I didn’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed. All right, time to see this girl. Something had to be wrong with her. What would it be? No intelligent, attractive woman would have anything to do with a douchebag like Graig. She must be hideous. She had to be deformed. Amputee? Fetal alcohol syndrome? Thai sex slave? What would it be?
“Hi, I’m Susan.”
Wow. She wasn’t terrible. A little bony, but a good smile and a nice nose. She had luminous green eyes that implied some sort of intelligence, not those hot, dumb eyes you see on so many girls today that are less a window to the soul and more an invitation for anal. Her shoulder length brown hair was straightened to shimmering perfection and her bright smile turned up at one corner betraying mischief in her heart. She was cute. Really cute. I immediately introduced myself. Graig sat there grinning retardedly in victory. I ignored him and was happy to see that Susan did too. She hadn’t broken her eye contact. Wait -- she was interested.
I had to have her. I had to show Graig that he was nothing. Anything he wanted, I could have. Now, I will be the first to admit that I had never been that attractive. No woman was going to see me across a crowded room and fall instantly in love. But I was better than the guys that looked that good. I had proved it before and I would prove it again. In this case, that meant I had to get Susan to want me. That meant I had to figure out her flaws. Treat a woman like dirt and she’ll stick to you like mud. A homeless guy told me that once, and judging by his sweet shopping cart, you just know things worked out for him.
The rest of the group broke up the mutual eye fuck between me and Susan to mimic a conversation some hipsters near us were having. The skinny jeans were talking about what indie bands were making good music, so our group did too. After all, this was Seattle. The city produced two great bands in the nineties, so holy Christ it was imperative that we kept breathlessly fawning over music like it had saved us from drowning. Fuck, I hated this. The hipsters were bad enough with their ironic glasses and grade school photo day haircuts, but fake hipsters were even worse. These people knew nothing about music, and talking about it with them made me want to enter a clinical trial for a razorblade suppository.
“I really liked the Arctic Monkeys album. It was by far the best of the year”
“Yeah, they’re great. I love that song -- what was it -- the one about the dance floor?”
“Yeah, great song. Have you heard the new Kings of Leon?”
“Yeah, they’re sick too.”
“I liked their older stuff.”
“Yeah, their old stuff was pretty nasty.”
I contemplated the possibility of lobotomy by drinking straw. Everyone was just naming bands that they thought were relatively unknown and agreeing that they were great. The lesser known the band, the more everyone agreed how fucking fantastic they were.
“I know Santogold has some new stuff coming out.”
“That’s going to be awesome. Didn’t she tour with Mogwai?”
“No, I think you’re thinking of Explosions in the Sky. Mogwai is more instrumental like them. That would be so great, though.”
“I love Explosions in the Sky. They make everything you’re doing seem so fucking brilliant. I could just be reading a book, and Explosions would make it seem like the most monumental thing in history.”
He’d be struggling with Green Eggs and Ham, no doubt.
“Who do you like, Cullen?” Susan had entered the fray. I decided to play a game.
“Eh, my tastes are varied, though I’m more concentrated on this drink.”
“Well, who you do like right now?” she pressed.
I smiled. “Quadraphonic Hi-Fi.”
Susan looked suspicious. “I don’t think I’ve heard of them,” she admitted.
Someone else: “They’re pretty dece. I think they sound a little like Hot Chip, right?”
Another moron: “Yeah, I think I’ve heard their stuff. Like Temper Trap, right? Totally indie.”
Great. It was working. I wondered how many band names I could make up before these morons caught on. I thought about how this game might actually help keep my brain from deteriorating. Well, if you didn’t count how much I was drinking. “Nah, they aren’t much like Hot Chip, not as much as they sound like the Frozen Peas or Sniffing Lazies anyway.”
“Oh yeah, all those guys are great. The Weakerthans, too. You know who else is good, the Black Kids.”
“Yeah, I’ve always been a fan of them. I think they played at Bumbershoot last year. Not as good as the Cold War Kids, but I’m starting to get into them more as their new stuff comes out.”
“I used to like the Cold War Kids, but I think they’ve totally sold out. Gone the way of the Raconteurs.”
Fucking great. I loathed this part of the discussion more than the rest. Bands ‘selling out’ were the scourge of the indie music scene. But wasn’t that the whole fucking idea of becoming a musician? You don’t start a band to become a nobody working basement clubs for the rest of your life, you start a band to become a beer-swilling, chick-banging, hotel-trashing, cocaine-fueled rockstar with adoring fans the world over. Anyone who tells you they are in it ‘for the love of the music’ is a complete fucking liar. You are in it to sell out. How stupid could these guys be? I decided to try something new. How about computers? “Yeah, the Raconteurs totally went the way of F9, Linux, and Deep Blue.”
“Totally, man. You know who stayed true, though? The fucking Dandy Warhols. The Decemberists, too.”
“Yeah Right! I saw the Decemberists on TV. T fucking V, man. Conan, I think.”
How about acronyms? “What do you guys think about OSHA? Better or worse than PCP?” I asked.
“Definitely better. They remind me of early LCD Soundsystem.”
“Or MGMT, but more raw -- unfiltered. What does OSHA stand for again? It was something cool, I remember.”
I was excited to finally get the chance to think on my feet. I didn’t miss a beat, “Ovation of Sounds Harmonized Around. It’s something totally meta that I don’t want to get into.” It was then that I noticed Susan was smirking. Was she getting it?
She offered, “Yeah, it actually has a lot to do with PCP’s name, Papa Cantada a Papi, since the PCPs were such a big influence on them early on.”
She was getting it. This was good. I knew I would have to stop screwing around with these other fucktards and concentrate on getting her away from Graig.
“Oh, I didn’t know that. That’s crazy, I’m normally pretty good with music,” I grinned.
She started again, “The lead singer of PCP actually left because he thought they were getting derivative. That’s when he formed Reverse Cowgirl.” She coyly smiled at me.
Sex positions? This was getting interesting. I dove in. “Didn’t Reverse Cowgirl get their bassist from the Missionaries?”
“No, you must be thinking of the Piledrivers,” she quipped.
“Ah yes,” I laughed, “the Piledrivers, who used to be the Rocky Mountain Thunderfucks, but they obviously had to change their name when they went to the radio. Aren’t they breaking up to form Pearl Necklace?”
Susan shook her head, “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I don’t think they’d go that far. Not right now anyway.”
Graig and the rest of the group looked dumbfounded. In the heat of trying to be hip, they had totally been left in the dust by two fakers. Graig dumbly offered, “Wow, Susan, I think you know as much about music as Cullen here.”
“ALMOST as much,” I interjected.
“Well, he might know music better, but at least I look better,” she joked.
“This coming from you? Look how you’re dressed.” I joked.
She was taken aback slightly. “What do you mean by that?”
I watched as she lost a little of her confidence. Was she a bit unsure of her appearance? Time to find out. “I guess they had a push-up sale at Vickie’s.”
“Why are you looking at my chest?” Susan half-stammered, trying to stay afloat.
“I don’t know, maybe it’s that shirt that drew my attention that way,” I offered. Time to move in for a kill shot, “It looks pretty weird on a girl as skinny as you, what with those bony shoulders. It’s like, you’re supposed to take the thing off the hanger before you wear it.”
She was getting mad now. She was as good as mine. She would do anything to win back my affection. “Wow, you sure can be a little jerk,” she muttered.
“I’m going to keep drinking this,” I raised my cocktail and I turned my back to her, “until you become interesting.”
Graig and the rest had become uncomfortable, “Yikes. Well, I’m going to hit the pisser, baby. Could you get me another Captain and Coke?” He kissed her on the cheek.
Susan nodded and Graig headed off to the restroom. As soon as he was out of sight she grabbed me by the arm and drug me aside, away from the wannabe hipster group. I was surprised, I’d never really seen a girl have the balls to yank a guy aside before. I didn’t know people actually did that. Up to that point, I had been lucky enough to not ever be surprised by a girl having balls, or anything else Crying Game related for that matter. As we walked towards the nearest wall of the bar, I heard the group feign a discussion of our extensive musical knowledge while in actuality they watched for the ensuing fight with furtive glances. Next time I would sell them on the idea that real indie music was just aiming at becoming mainstream. Underground shit was so last year. I’d convince them that Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers were the new trendy groups. I prepped the conversation in my head. In the meantime Susan was mad.
“You don’t have to be such a dick to me,” she said.
“Whatever, I thought we were having a little fun,” I retorted. “Just because you can’t keep up doesn’t mean I should stop screwing around.”
“Making fun of me isn’t what I would consider having fun. You’d better cut that shit out,“ she threatened.
“Or what? You’ll sick Graig on me? How come you hang out with that douche anyway?”
“Him? Don’t worry about it. He’s nothing.”
“If he’s nothing, then why don’t you give me your number?”
“Because you’re the kind of guy that would never call.”
“Then I’ll give you mine.”
“You’re such a player, aren’t you?”
“You’re the one who just cornered me while you’re out on a date with another guy. That’s very forward of you. I’ll bet you even kiss on the first date.” The fake hipsters were craning their scarved necks looking towards me and Susan, practically salivating waiting for a slap.
“Yeah, you’ll have to watch out for that. You wouldn’t want to catch cooties,” she smirked.
“Nah, don’t worry. I already got vaccinated against it. Something about a circle, circle, dot, dot.”
I pulled out my phone and after a few more moments of coaxing we quickly exchanged numbers. She said she’d call soon. I told her that it’d better be sooner rather than later since I would be heading out of town the next day. By then we were giggling flirtatiously, stopping only enough for me to shrug mock surprise to the eavesdropping group a few yards away. As if on cue Graig walked around the corner no doubt, I reasoned, back from a hot male-on-male encounter in the bathroom stall. Susan removed her finger from my belt loop and hoped Graig hadn’t noticed.
“What’s going on over here?” Graig asked pointedly.
“Oh nothing,” I said, “your girl just threatened to have you kick my ass if I wasn’t nicer to her. I acquiesced. She’s a tough cookie, you should hold onto her.”
Graig softened, “Yeah? You jealous?”
“A bit,” I said truthfully. “Anyway, I’ve got to get going -- work and all. It was good seeing you. I thought you were still mad about the intercom prank.”
Graig’s hand subconsciously went halfway to his thinning hair then stopped, “Oh, that? No. No hard feelings, man. Though you don’t have to go for the jugular every time. Cool?”
“Cool. Susan, it was great meeting you. You kids have a good night.” I finished my drink, set it on the bar and began to walk out. I made sure to thank Amos for the freebies.
I was no more than four blocks away by the time she called.
I smiled and finished my gimlet over the sink. I was already late for saving the world, so I kept the shower short, grabbed my bags, and left in a hurry. I blasted out of the garage and around the corner towards the highway. The deserted streets felt like home. God, it was a hollow time in my life, but you’ll have to forgive me for loving it. I had no strings and no regrets. Every time I got myself locked into another complex personal situation, I had a trip for work to help extricate me. It was a fantastic way to live, trapped in a never-ending party. I had two cars, a fantastic -- if not slightly American Psycho -- downtown Seattle apartment, plenty of girls to sleep with but nothing close to resembling a commitment. It was an amazingly empty way to go through my days, but somehow the shallowest pools are the most comforting in which to drown.
The forty minutes on the highway to work were spent leaving messages with friends to let them know I’d be out of town for a few weeks. Most of the people I called hadn’t seen me in months anyway so they wouldn’t miss me. They needed to hang out at the bars more. I was just making an effort to keep the connections alive; I thought that I might need them to help find me a job when I finally found my way out. Or maybe a place to hole-up after I snapped and stalked through the office with an M-16. I couldn’t really figure out which was more likely. I avoided calling the parents as usual; they always seemed to worry no matter how routine this had become, and that was a conversation I could do without. I don’t even miss it now.
I roared up to the front gate and steered into the cute guard’s lane. She wasn’t really that great of a prize, but she would provide at least ten minutes of conversation with the guys on the flight. She winked and let me through. She winked at everyone. Still, it made us all feel like we had a shot even though she was most likely the wife of one of the Spec Ops guys from Ft. Lewis who would go all Chris Benoit if he found out she was such a flirt.
I continued towards One-Stop, dreading the next few weeks. The constant trips were normally a welcome respite -- and a moneymaking one at that -- but I had long ago learned that it didn’t matter how awful the locations were, if your crew was good, you’d have a good time. My crew today was basically a shit sandwich. I was escaping, though. You take the good with the bad. I parked in the closest lot that they don’t want you to leave your car in for weeks at a time -- intending to do just that -- and unloaded my bags dreading the idea that I probably wouldn’t die before that plane left the ground.
Once inside, I met up with the rest of the crewmembers who were already gathering their gear for the mission. Guns, flight orders, secrets, nav kits -- everything was ready for me to sign off. At least these nerds would be hard workers. I realized that the Nomex of my flight suit might be flame resistant, but did nothing to contain the stink of alcohol. Nobody would say anything. They loved me. Everyone who didn’t matter did. I will never figure that one out. I mustered the energy to begin my paperwork and settled in to the reality that was my job. I used to hate letting that define me, but for the next three weeks at least, that was all that would. Fortunately this trip would keep me out of the office and away from my four bosses for a while. They were some of the ones that mattered.
The overly peppy airman who had called to wake me up just over an hour ago approached, handed me a stack of papers and said, “Capt Thomas, here is the package with your flight plan, NOTAMs, and weather. Have a safe flight to Germany, and try to have at least a little fun over there in Iraq.”
“Fucking kill yourself.”
I was such a grouch when I was alive!
It rang that stupid, incessant, chiming ring. It rang needles into my brain. It was the first thing I’d felt in a thousand years, and I needed to kill it. I rolled over. She was gone. Perfect. Who would be calling this… late? The phone’s screen glowed coldly in annoying, shining defiance to the warm comfortable dark.
Great.
“Hello, this is One-Stop. You’re alerted. Would you like a meal?”
“Nine small golf.”
“Thanks. See you in an hour.”
I lay there groggy, hung-over, and dreading the day. The empty space next to me smelled sweet, and I was naked, alone. My friends had been calling all morning to find out what happened with the girl and me.
All in all it was a pretty typical Wednesday afternoon.
The fog started to clear. There were six messages; they helped piece together the previous night. Start with the edges and work your way in. It began with invitations to the game, then to the bars, and finally an angry one, which is the only one worth hearing now.
So:
“Hey man, this is Graig.”
Somehow he even pronounced it differently. Why couldn’t he just spell his name like normal?
“I need you to call me back. What you pulled with Susan last night was pretty dick.”
Susan. That’s right.
“I know bros before hoes and all, but still, she was out with me. Whatever, we need to talk it out so we can hug it out.”
Someday I would have to stop hanging out with people from work. These morons set hair on end, but for now I needed the excuse to drink.
Time to get up.
I pulled the comforter off my legs and lethargically swung my feet off the bed. The old wooden floor creaked beneath me as I walked to the bathroom to turn on the shower. The large spout rained cold on my hand. I’d let it warm up. I flexed for the mirror and told myself I looked as strong as a thoroughbred, though in actuality I looked closer to the glue factory than the Triple Crown. My lean, pale body had reasonable musculature, but my face was wrinkled and even spotted if you ventured to look close enough. I was old for my age. So I wiped away some crusted drool and headed for the kitchen.
Various bottles and half-finished drinks littered the kitchen counter. There was a dusting of pink powder next to the wine glass stained with the remnants of merlot and lipstick.
My insurance policy.
The powder was nitric oxide. It was an argnine workout supplement that rushed blood and nutrients to the muscles during particularly strenuous exercise. It helped build muscle, made veins bulge, and gave you unbelievable focus. And it worked on the same principle as Viagra. Most people would have seen the need for a sexual performance enhancer at 25 as some type of sign that their relationships might just be a little dysfunctional, but I was blind to that. Or maybe I was just going blind. What were those side effects again?
There was nothing of value in the fridge, but there was enough to mix a gimlet on the counter, so I gave in to the desire that brought me to the kitchen in the first place. I poured gin and sweetened limejuice and then splashed some water on. Finally I added an ice cube from the freezer and some more gin. I mixed the concoction with a finger and sipped my breakfast. It was good, not as good as the ones I started the night prior with, but it was washing the stale taste from my mouth and the mossy film from my teeth.
Jeff showed early the night before; the Sonics were out of it by the half -- what a way to start the season. I had refused his invitation to the game because of the effort required to leave the apartment, so he showed up to punish my indolence by drinking all my beer. I had decided early to attack the Bombay. We whiled away the time generally wasting our minds and our youths. We played video games, talked sports, and knocked back drinks until we couldn’t see straight. After a while it had finally become a suitable time to go out to the bars, that time being whenever women would be there too. It was a short walk to the first place, a deplorable country-western dive where the girls slinging the drinks spent half the time dancing on the bar instead of getting you drunk, but that’s where Jeff wanted to go.
I knew walking up to the place that I would have to get blue-blind-paralytic-drunk to make the ensuing hours enjoyable. The bar was packed with large, sweaty guys watching a mechanical bull grimace under the strain of multiple sorority heifers. Stickers plastered the joint, a sort of redneck wallpaper. “One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Floor”, “Lance Uppercut Drank Here”, “Eddie Would Go”. Carrie Underwood and the like blared through the door, passed the waiting line and mingled with the smell of desperation on the way out to the street. Once inside, Jeff and I caught up with Brent and his friend who was a teacher or a student or something else that didn’t require much real thought. The nameless kid brought nothing to the table. Meanwhile, the half-naked bartenders danced around the taps to that god-awful country song from the poker commercials. Despite the southern music, each of them was about twenty pounds north of hot. The one nearest to us was familiar with Brent and his friend, and kept thrusting her Daisy Dukes in their direction while she implored along with the music to ‘save a horse, ride a cowboy.’
Unfortunately the song ended before I could find a six-shooter to splatter my brains across the bar. You can’t win ‘em all. The bartender climbed down and asked, “What can I get you cowboys?” Clever. I wondered if a full bathtub and a plugged-in toaster were too much to ask. Regardless, I started chatting her up while she idly played with a coaster. I was funny and she was dumb -- it was a great combination. I hoped that if I was lucky, I could make jokes at her expense without her understanding and still maybe pilfer some free drinks out of the deal. We both chatted and laughed at her stupidity and before I knew it she was emptying a bottle of Jack directly into my mouth as the mob cheered us on. At that moment I stopped enjoying the drink and wondered how many times a night this happened. Was it sanitary? I reasoned that alcohol was a disinfectant so I should be fine.
After the little show, I needed a break. I lied to Jeff, Brent, and the fun-sponge that I was going to get out of the noise to check my messages. Outside, I was surprised to find that despite my faked interest there actually were messages waiting for me. The only new one was from Graig, a loathsome, smarmy sonofabitch from work. Graig was at Axis having drinks with a few other -- decidedly more tolerable -- guys from the office. I reasoned that the ten-block hike was worth it since there was a better chance to meet some girls who weren’t on payroll and possibly even literate.
I walked briskly up the street, my breath fogging faintly in the air. The city and I languished together in our early winter. Counting my drinks to that point, I wondered why I still felt nothing. That meant my tolerance was finally back to normal. I’d been out of the game too long with those trips. Work was killing me.
As I arrived at Axis my phone rang. Jeff was calling, no doubt wondering to where I had run off. I clicked a button sending him straight to voicemail, but before I got the phone back in my jeans there was a second call, this one from Brent. That too was ignored. It’s not that I really wanted to ditch them, but if I stayed at the last place Toby Keith -- or a whiskey bottle -- would spell the end of me. I wanted to kill myself on my own terms. My throat burned and my hands were numb; it was time for another drink.
Inside, the bar smelled like cheap Midori cologne. I guessed correctly that the stench should be attributed that to the nearby table of grownup frat boys talking to the divorcees. Those douchey guys were probably investment bankers, what with their expensive drinks, good looks, and pressed suits. I hated and envied them all at once. The amber-lit sidewall opposite the bar was filled with burly mountains of muscle topped by dreadlocks -- Seahawks. Trashy women flocked to the men who were jubilantly buying up the stocks of whatever trendy champagne was currently the most expensive. These football players got to play games for millions of dollars a year, the adoration of men and women alike was just an added bonus. I envied them as well.
Hands clamped down onto my shoulders, “We’re all on the other side of the bar, jackass,” someone shouted into my ear before I could properly murder them for touching me.
Graig. I turned around to see that fat face grinning ear to ear beneath those beady eyes and that unfortunately-thin, unfortunately-styled blonde hair. Judging from the smile, Graig had gotten over slight I had made at his expense earlier. The intercom was one of the only diversions at the office.
“Graig Osmond to the conference room. Graig, you are needed in the conference room, stat. I think Dr. Bosley is here to check your donor area.”
“You gotta meet my new girl Susan,” Graig smiled.
Graig was excited. He wanted about to rub it in. How hot was she? We made our way through the surprisingly crowded lounge toward the rest of their group. How many lies and roofie coladas did it take for Graig to reel this girl in? Who’s even sure it was a girl? Graig would probably take attention from a crossdressing Panamanian crack whore as long as “her” wanking hand hadn’t be cleaved by a previous John. I guess the crack whore would probably have to be deaf to make things work though, considering the never-ending vomit of uninteresting tripe spewing from Graig’s lips. Passing the side bar, Amos asked me what I wanted to drink. Damn, it was good to have bartenders as friends. He grabbed a bottle from the top shelf, the lip of said shelf informing me that Lance Uppercut drank here as well. Great, one more person ahead of me on the liver transplant list. I didn’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed. All right, time to see this girl. Something had to be wrong with her. What would it be? No intelligent, attractive woman would have anything to do with a douchebag like Graig. She must be hideous. She had to be deformed. Amputee? Fetal alcohol syndrome? Thai sex slave? What would it be?
“Hi, I’m Susan.”
Wow. She wasn’t terrible. A little bony, but a good smile and a nice nose. She had luminous green eyes that implied some sort of intelligence, not those hot, dumb eyes you see on so many girls today that are less a window to the soul and more an invitation for anal. Her shoulder length brown hair was straightened to shimmering perfection and her bright smile turned up at one corner betraying mischief in her heart. She was cute. Really cute. I immediately introduced myself. Graig sat there grinning retardedly in victory. I ignored him and was happy to see that Susan did too. She hadn’t broken her eye contact. Wait -- she was interested.
I had to have her. I had to show Graig that he was nothing. Anything he wanted, I could have. Now, I will be the first to admit that I had never been that attractive. No woman was going to see me across a crowded room and fall instantly in love. But I was better than the guys that looked that good. I had proved it before and I would prove it again. In this case, that meant I had to get Susan to want me. That meant I had to figure out her flaws. Treat a woman like dirt and she’ll stick to you like mud. A homeless guy told me that once, and judging by his sweet shopping cart, you just know things worked out for him.
The rest of the group broke up the mutual eye fuck between me and Susan to mimic a conversation some hipsters near us were having. The skinny jeans were talking about what indie bands were making good music, so our group did too. After all, this was Seattle. The city produced two great bands in the nineties, so holy Christ it was imperative that we kept breathlessly fawning over music like it had saved us from drowning. Fuck, I hated this. The hipsters were bad enough with their ironic glasses and grade school photo day haircuts, but fake hipsters were even worse. These people knew nothing about music, and talking about it with them made me want to enter a clinical trial for a razorblade suppository.
“I really liked the Arctic Monkeys album. It was by far the best of the year”
“Yeah, they’re great. I love that song -- what was it -- the one about the dance floor?”
“Yeah, great song. Have you heard the new Kings of Leon?”
“Yeah, they’re sick too.”
“I liked their older stuff.”
“Yeah, their old stuff was pretty nasty.”
I contemplated the possibility of lobotomy by drinking straw. Everyone was just naming bands that they thought were relatively unknown and agreeing that they were great. The lesser known the band, the more everyone agreed how fucking fantastic they were.
“I know Santogold has some new stuff coming out.”
“That’s going to be awesome. Didn’t she tour with Mogwai?”
“No, I think you’re thinking of Explosions in the Sky. Mogwai is more instrumental like them. That would be so great, though.”
“I love Explosions in the Sky. They make everything you’re doing seem so fucking brilliant. I could just be reading a book, and Explosions would make it seem like the most monumental thing in history.”
He’d be struggling with Green Eggs and Ham, no doubt.
“Who do you like, Cullen?” Susan had entered the fray. I decided to play a game.
“Eh, my tastes are varied, though I’m more concentrated on this drink.”
“Well, who you do like right now?” she pressed.
I smiled. “Quadraphonic Hi-Fi.”
Susan looked suspicious. “I don’t think I’ve heard of them,” she admitted.
Someone else: “They’re pretty dece. I think they sound a little like Hot Chip, right?”
Another moron: “Yeah, I think I’ve heard their stuff. Like Temper Trap, right? Totally indie.”
Great. It was working. I wondered how many band names I could make up before these morons caught on. I thought about how this game might actually help keep my brain from deteriorating. Well, if you didn’t count how much I was drinking. “Nah, they aren’t much like Hot Chip, not as much as they sound like the Frozen Peas or Sniffing Lazies anyway.”
“Oh yeah, all those guys are great. The Weakerthans, too. You know who else is good, the Black Kids.”
“Yeah, I’ve always been a fan of them. I think they played at Bumbershoot last year. Not as good as the Cold War Kids, but I’m starting to get into them more as their new stuff comes out.”
“I used to like the Cold War Kids, but I think they’ve totally sold out. Gone the way of the Raconteurs.”
Fucking great. I loathed this part of the discussion more than the rest. Bands ‘selling out’ were the scourge of the indie music scene. But wasn’t that the whole fucking idea of becoming a musician? You don’t start a band to become a nobody working basement clubs for the rest of your life, you start a band to become a beer-swilling, chick-banging, hotel-trashing, cocaine-fueled rockstar with adoring fans the world over. Anyone who tells you they are in it ‘for the love of the music’ is a complete fucking liar. You are in it to sell out. How stupid could these guys be? I decided to try something new. How about computers? “Yeah, the Raconteurs totally went the way of F9, Linux, and Deep Blue.”
“Totally, man. You know who stayed true, though? The fucking Dandy Warhols. The Decemberists, too.”
“Yeah Right! I saw the Decemberists on TV. T fucking V, man. Conan, I think.”
How about acronyms? “What do you guys think about OSHA? Better or worse than PCP?” I asked.
“Definitely better. They remind me of early LCD Soundsystem.”
“Or MGMT, but more raw -- unfiltered. What does OSHA stand for again? It was something cool, I remember.”
I was excited to finally get the chance to think on my feet. I didn’t miss a beat, “Ovation of Sounds Harmonized Around. It’s something totally meta that I don’t want to get into.” It was then that I noticed Susan was smirking. Was she getting it?
She offered, “Yeah, it actually has a lot to do with PCP’s name, Papa Cantada a Papi, since the PCPs were such a big influence on them early on.”
She was getting it. This was good. I knew I would have to stop screwing around with these other fucktards and concentrate on getting her away from Graig.
“Oh, I didn’t know that. That’s crazy, I’m normally pretty good with music,” I grinned.
She started again, “The lead singer of PCP actually left because he thought they were getting derivative. That’s when he formed Reverse Cowgirl.” She coyly smiled at me.
Sex positions? This was getting interesting. I dove in. “Didn’t Reverse Cowgirl get their bassist from the Missionaries?”
“No, you must be thinking of the Piledrivers,” she quipped.
“Ah yes,” I laughed, “the Piledrivers, who used to be the Rocky Mountain Thunderfucks, but they obviously had to change their name when they went to the radio. Aren’t they breaking up to form Pearl Necklace?”
Susan shook her head, “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I don’t think they’d go that far. Not right now anyway.”
Graig and the rest of the group looked dumbfounded. In the heat of trying to be hip, they had totally been left in the dust by two fakers. Graig dumbly offered, “Wow, Susan, I think you know as much about music as Cullen here.”
“ALMOST as much,” I interjected.
“Well, he might know music better, but at least I look better,” she joked.
“This coming from you? Look how you’re dressed.” I joked.
She was taken aback slightly. “What do you mean by that?”
I watched as she lost a little of her confidence. Was she a bit unsure of her appearance? Time to find out. “I guess they had a push-up sale at Vickie’s.”
“Why are you looking at my chest?” Susan half-stammered, trying to stay afloat.
“I don’t know, maybe it’s that shirt that drew my attention that way,” I offered. Time to move in for a kill shot, “It looks pretty weird on a girl as skinny as you, what with those bony shoulders. It’s like, you’re supposed to take the thing off the hanger before you wear it.”
She was getting mad now. She was as good as mine. She would do anything to win back my affection. “Wow, you sure can be a little jerk,” she muttered.
“I’m going to keep drinking this,” I raised my cocktail and I turned my back to her, “until you become interesting.”
Graig and the rest had become uncomfortable, “Yikes. Well, I’m going to hit the pisser, baby. Could you get me another Captain and Coke?” He kissed her on the cheek.
Susan nodded and Graig headed off to the restroom. As soon as he was out of sight she grabbed me by the arm and drug me aside, away from the wannabe hipster group. I was surprised, I’d never really seen a girl have the balls to yank a guy aside before. I didn’t know people actually did that. Up to that point, I had been lucky enough to not ever be surprised by a girl having balls, or anything else Crying Game related for that matter. As we walked towards the nearest wall of the bar, I heard the group feign a discussion of our extensive musical knowledge while in actuality they watched for the ensuing fight with furtive glances. Next time I would sell them on the idea that real indie music was just aiming at becoming mainstream. Underground shit was so last year. I’d convince them that Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers were the new trendy groups. I prepped the conversation in my head. In the meantime Susan was mad.
“You don’t have to be such a dick to me,” she said.
“Whatever, I thought we were having a little fun,” I retorted. “Just because you can’t keep up doesn’t mean I should stop screwing around.”
“Making fun of me isn’t what I would consider having fun. You’d better cut that shit out,“ she threatened.
“Or what? You’ll sick Graig on me? How come you hang out with that douche anyway?”
“Him? Don’t worry about it. He’s nothing.”
“If he’s nothing, then why don’t you give me your number?”
“Because you’re the kind of guy that would never call.”
“Then I’ll give you mine.”
“You’re such a player, aren’t you?”
“You’re the one who just cornered me while you’re out on a date with another guy. That’s very forward of you. I’ll bet you even kiss on the first date.” The fake hipsters were craning their scarved necks looking towards me and Susan, practically salivating waiting for a slap.
“Yeah, you’ll have to watch out for that. You wouldn’t want to catch cooties,” she smirked.
“Nah, don’t worry. I already got vaccinated against it. Something about a circle, circle, dot, dot.”
I pulled out my phone and after a few more moments of coaxing we quickly exchanged numbers. She said she’d call soon. I told her that it’d better be sooner rather than later since I would be heading out of town the next day. By then we were giggling flirtatiously, stopping only enough for me to shrug mock surprise to the eavesdropping group a few yards away. As if on cue Graig walked around the corner no doubt, I reasoned, back from a hot male-on-male encounter in the bathroom stall. Susan removed her finger from my belt loop and hoped Graig hadn’t noticed.
“What’s going on over here?” Graig asked pointedly.
“Oh nothing,” I said, “your girl just threatened to have you kick my ass if I wasn’t nicer to her. I acquiesced. She’s a tough cookie, you should hold onto her.”
Graig softened, “Yeah? You jealous?”
“A bit,” I said truthfully. “Anyway, I’ve got to get going -- work and all. It was good seeing you. I thought you were still mad about the intercom prank.”
Graig’s hand subconsciously went halfway to his thinning hair then stopped, “Oh, that? No. No hard feelings, man. Though you don’t have to go for the jugular every time. Cool?”
“Cool. Susan, it was great meeting you. You kids have a good night.” I finished my drink, set it on the bar and began to walk out. I made sure to thank Amos for the freebies.
I was no more than four blocks away by the time she called.
I smiled and finished my gimlet over the sink. I was already late for saving the world, so I kept the shower short, grabbed my bags, and left in a hurry. I blasted out of the garage and around the corner towards the highway. The deserted streets felt like home. God, it was a hollow time in my life, but you’ll have to forgive me for loving it. I had no strings and no regrets. Every time I got myself locked into another complex personal situation, I had a trip for work to help extricate me. It was a fantastic way to live, trapped in a never-ending party. I had two cars, a fantastic -- if not slightly American Psycho -- downtown Seattle apartment, plenty of girls to sleep with but nothing close to resembling a commitment. It was an amazingly empty way to go through my days, but somehow the shallowest pools are the most comforting in which to drown.
The forty minutes on the highway to work were spent leaving messages with friends to let them know I’d be out of town for a few weeks. Most of the people I called hadn’t seen me in months anyway so they wouldn’t miss me. They needed to hang out at the bars more. I was just making an effort to keep the connections alive; I thought that I might need them to help find me a job when I finally found my way out. Or maybe a place to hole-up after I snapped and stalked through the office with an M-16. I couldn’t really figure out which was more likely. I avoided calling the parents as usual; they always seemed to worry no matter how routine this had become, and that was a conversation I could do without. I don’t even miss it now.
I roared up to the front gate and steered into the cute guard’s lane. She wasn’t really that great of a prize, but she would provide at least ten minutes of conversation with the guys on the flight. She winked and let me through. She winked at everyone. Still, it made us all feel like we had a shot even though she was most likely the wife of one of the Spec Ops guys from Ft. Lewis who would go all Chris Benoit if he found out she was such a flirt.
I continued towards One-Stop, dreading the next few weeks. The constant trips were normally a welcome respite -- and a moneymaking one at that -- but I had long ago learned that it didn’t matter how awful the locations were, if your crew was good, you’d have a good time. My crew today was basically a shit sandwich. I was escaping, though. You take the good with the bad. I parked in the closest lot that they don’t want you to leave your car in for weeks at a time -- intending to do just that -- and unloaded my bags dreading the idea that I probably wouldn’t die before that plane left the ground.
Once inside, I met up with the rest of the crewmembers who were already gathering their gear for the mission. Guns, flight orders, secrets, nav kits -- everything was ready for me to sign off. At least these nerds would be hard workers. I realized that the Nomex of my flight suit might be flame resistant, but did nothing to contain the stink of alcohol. Nobody would say anything. They loved me. Everyone who didn’t matter did. I will never figure that one out. I mustered the energy to begin my paperwork and settled in to the reality that was my job. I used to hate letting that define me, but for the next three weeks at least, that was all that would. Fortunately this trip would keep me out of the office and away from my four bosses for a while. They were some of the ones that mattered.
The overly peppy airman who had called to wake me up just over an hour ago approached, handed me a stack of papers and said, “Capt Thomas, here is the package with your flight plan, NOTAMs, and weather. Have a safe flight to Germany, and try to have at least a little fun over there in Iraq.”
“Fucking kill yourself.”
I was such a grouch when I was alive!
