Falls Street (4) “The game’s over there,” she said pointing over my shoulder. I thought about walking right then. I had already given her fodder enough to ruin my life with anyway. Everyday I saw her from then on she’d be telling everyone how I came over to her in the middle of a ball game, drooling over her body like some perverted creep. I stood, though. I couldn’t think of anything witty to say. So, I just stood there. Randy popped up from his seat and rammed his chest into me. I tripped over my feet a bit, but I recovered. As my eyes came back up, I got a nice shot of outline of Sarah’s bra through her white blouse. “Hey,” he said. “I’m talking to you.” “Huh?” I said still looking at her. She was shaking her head at me, laughing a bit, because she knew Randy was going at least wrap me alongside the head. He did. “You listening to me now, shithead?” he said in his garbled deep voice. He needed speech lessons, no doubt about that. He could use a bath, too, but I had to admit, the tattoo on his shoulder was pretty neat. Unoriginal, but neat as all hell, I’d say. “What?” I said. “I’m sorry.” “Yeah, you’re damn right, you’re sorry,” he said throwing his chest in front of me again. “You best be running off to find your little friends.” “Well,” I said. I never got a chance to look at him before, but he was pulsating. His adrenaline was so high. You could see it in his eyes, in that strange yellow tint that came into the brown. He was just some kind of thing, pumped up on anticipation, and there I was, a perfect safe guard. And deep in him, I could see a drooling beast with a child’s glee going all ape shit inside, because his standing up there made it that much more likely that he would get laid. He was thanking God for my dumb ass, and I loved it. That’s when it came out. “Don’t worry, man,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll still fuck you whether you beat my ass or not?” I said it to his girlfriend, not to him at all. He should of hit me, but he was so mad all I heard were these spitting noises. I was looking at Sarah who leaned over a bit, because she couldn’t believe what she thought she heard. “What did he say?” she asked. “He didn’t just say that,” Randy’s girl declared. She was alright looking, brown hair and freckles, kind of boring. “You better not have said that, because if you said that…” “What did you say, punk?” Randy said spinning me around to face him. “Nothing,” I said. He gave me a nice two-handed shove in the chest. “That’s what I thought you said,” he grunted. I almost fell over, and he assumed I’d just hit the floor of the bleachers. He took his seat next to his girl. Other people were starting to yell for us to get out of the way. I didn’t hit the floor, though. I just stood there, and laughed a bit. “Sit down!” some old guy yelled out. And I realized that I was the only one standing there. I couldn’t see the old guy’s face. If I could have seen him maybe I wouldn’t have been so scared, but everything got blurry and weird. The first punch he gave me was starting to sting on my left side. All I wanted to do was get away from that shouting voice… “hey, buddy, are you deaf!” and so I just sat down in the closest seat, two or three away from Sarah in the first row. I looked around to see who I was next to and figure out how bad of a rut I was in. On one side was a girl I didn’t know and further doing the line, Randy was making a face like he was giving me ten seconds to clear out before he came over there. On the other side, in a nice pink skirt cut just above the knees, Connie Stultz sat chewing a tiny piece of spearmint gum. “Hey,” she said sliding over a little. She didn’t seem upset or anything, but she never seemed upset about anything. For some reason, that kind of bothered me. It wrecked up whatever mood I was feeling so strongly when I was getting knocked around. I didn’t feel like looking at anything, and Randy Ruth was leaning forward giving me the funniest looks. It was exactly what you would expect. Everything about him was like a bad rendition of reality. It’s weird how the world can hit you like a joke that stops being funny a second or so after you hear it. You laugh, sure, but I’m not sure I know why. Maybe, we’re nervous, because this is the real show and after all the waiting and sweating alone, you enter the story to find that it’s not all that interesting. It’s ironic, yeah, but it’s sad and scary. How much effort does it take to make a life interesting? Looking at Randy, I felt like I had spent it all on a brief set of moments, and while things happened, it wasn’t going to be enough. It didn’t make up for the time spent worrying about it. Getting hit in the head stung, but not as much as worrying about getting hit in the head. You’d think if somebody wasn’t good at much else expect intimidating people and hitting them in the head, there’d at least be more too it than that. I wasn’t mad about not getting to say what I probably should have said. I was mad that I ever thought about Randy, because short of him killing me, I don’t think anything could possibly happen between us that would live up to the way I’d be thinking about it. The whole world just kind of disappeared for a while. Actually, I was trying not to think at all. It was some kind of luxury just to stare out and pretend I was watching the game. Getting real focused on the sound of the ball hitting a glove, I sort of got to like it. It was more of a smacking noise than the thwap of a soccer ball taking off, but it was kind of the same thing. They all seemed to know what they were doing, though. Every player on the field seemed to see everything, but without eyes. They functioned like some sort of machine part to each other and the game. I was watching baseball, I realized, and then I thought about the clusters of people. I looked over my shoulder and far off in the back, one section over, Crash and Ray were looking at me. All Crash’s friends were slumped over trying to get his attention, tapping him on the shoulder and laughing in his ears. I turned back to the game. It was still going. It was still baseball. And for some reason I started thinking about how it really might be the greatest game in the world, if only for the way it’s always baseball no matter who’s out there, and that sound, too. All those sounds will always be baseball. But, I didn’t love it, and I never really wanted it a day in my life. I could see wanting it, though. I could see loving it. Looking back to my friends, seeing Ray slowly turning back to his girl, Crash getting pulled into a few jokes with his new friends, I think I was on the verge of letting it go, not laughing, not getting mad, just letting it go on. “You like baseball?” she asked. “Huh?” I said. “No, not really.” “You just seem to be paying awful close attention to the game,” she said. Her gum kept showing up in front of her teeth spread out over the left half of a smile. “I guess,” I said. “Sorry about Randy,” she said. “He gets real defensive, you know.” “Whatever,” I said. I must have been in shock or something, because I really forgot that she was hot. This is the kind of thing Ray calls a golden opportunity. There I was in the sort of scenario that Starky would makeup just to have something to say. These kind of things, they’re like the stories about the guys who actually saw Kristy Lee in the act. These moments… don’t happen, and yet it was just another thing… not worth the nervousness that went into it. And I was expecting to shake. I did, but my mind wasn’t compelled to think anything. I didn’t even want to look down her shirt, even though I knew I should. I just wanted to watch baseball, something fluid and real. No, real isn’t what I meant. It was just plain better. I don’t know what I mean by that. At least, it was better looking at it than not looking at it. Sometimes, you can’t think of any place you’d rather be. It had nothing to do with Connie Stultz. It was like not existing at all. Somehow, it was just like being back in my room. It didn’t take too long of just sitting there thinking before I started forgetting things. I forgot why my ear hurt and why I had been sweating. I forgot who was sitting next to me, and I forgot all the reasons I should have probably said or did something. And when I had to go to the bathroom. I got up and went. It wasn’t until I came back to the stands that I realized that I didn’t know where I was going. Ray caught sight of me and waved me back to my original seat. “Holy shit!” he said. “What happened? You have to tell me what happened?” “Nothing happened,” I said. “Who’s winning?” “Dude,” Crash said. He was high. “Hey, are you all right?” Ray asked. “I was going to go over and help you out, but I was waiting just in case anybody else jumped at you. I know you can take care of yourself, right? But, I… I had your back.” He said this to his girl, and I let that roll, though, it was annoying. “I’m fine,” I said. “Who’s winning the game?” “It’s on the score board, man,” he said pointing. He did this, because it really was a stupid question to ask. My brain wasn’t working all that well. He also said this, because he really didn’t know who was winning either. “So, you’re macking all the chicks you run into tonight, huh?” Crash said. “You’re some kind of mack daddy now, aren’t you?” “Whatever,” I said. “He’s all shy about it now,” Ray said. “I think he’s starting to realize how close he was to getting his ass kicked.” “Not likely,” I said. “What?” Crash said. “You don’t think he could fit it in his busy schedule to mop the floor with your scrawny ass?” “I’m sure he could,” I said. “But I don’t think it’d ever happen.” “Why’s that?” Ray asked. “Because, he’s too damn boring,” I said. “He doesn’t deserve her.” “Yeah, well,” Ray sighed. “That’s how these things work out sometimes. A lot of times the good guy gets shafted.” He said this to her, and not to me. It wasn’t a good move. I don’t recall anything about her, but I know she caught that and everything he meant by it. She just let it roll, though, and that’s why she’s invisible to me. Crash and his friends left early. I was watching the game to the end, and I didn’t even see Sarah Highroad leave. After a few innings, I was really starting to figure a few things out about the game. It’s a lot better seeing it at a ballpark than on television. Maybe, that’s why baseball’s better, almost better than anything else I can think of. And maybe a guy’s liking baseball is the greatest showing of heart and soul he can give. It was probably all that silly “Field of Dreams” shit taking hold of me, though. Baseball has great PR. Maybe, I was just trying to build it up to see if I could. At least, Baseball deserves the big push, though. I’d rather wear a ball cap than dress up how I think someone would like. The sad thing, though, is that baseball becomes like anything else. It’s one of those things that you like because other people like it, and then you can relate, and the more relationships, the more opportunity to score. It’s another step in this long distance, acceptable, hypocritical prostitution. And it’s exhausting to even think about. It doesn’t take long when you think this way to lose that sudden bit of baseball fever. Maybe, if you loved it and never let anyone know, it’d be all right, but once someone knows you’re a fan, he’ll have to prove he’s a better one, quiz you on the stats, grill you on the inside information. And he’ll say, you’re not a “real” fan, because he can’t understand that you might feel something in the sound of ball hitting a glove that helps you forget that all the fans of the world ever existed. It’s just baseball, and for a few moments, it can feel honest.… direct. Then, you remember that there are people in the world, the twelve o’clock news, scandals, inquiries, and you realize you’ve been duped once again by something that could have been really good. Maybe, it still is, but when you see the price of a hotdog proudly displayed on the board at the concession stand or see the billboards with the names of dentists and lawyers, you have to wonder if it’s worth the effort. “Did you like the game,” my father asked me when I came home. “No,” I said. “I don’t like baseball all that much.” *** I was on empty, and at the wrong time. The whole feel of that night and the long time spent lying awake thinking about baseball just killed off a big chunk of space in my head that could have been better spent on committing certain details to memory. I was mad at myself for a few minutes, that’s it, and then I decided the best thing to do would be to punish myself. That would mean going on ahead, no matter how futile it seemed. I was going to continue on with my original experiment. There’s no reason why a little boredom and stupid thought has to get in the way of a golden opportunity. God or whatever gives us one life to screw up, and I hadn’t even begun to screw up anything. Having so much to lose meant that it was worth something. Why spend it all in one place? Why make a wedding vow and say, “yes,” all at once “my turn to have sex with every girl I ever wanted is totally over.” Why not find that out, one bad breakdown at a time? They called him Crash when he rammed his wagon into Mrs. Henderson’s fence. That’s nothing, just bumps and bruises. Those things can be healed, but what a wreck I could make out of things. What a strange hell the whole world would be if you just spaced out death into several failures. Call me something, because this isn’t me. Call me something else, because this is living, not thinking. I’m Mr. Breakdown, goddamn it, and the floor that I will hit…. If repetition is beauty, I can see the whole world turning brighter in a series of downfalls. *** Chapter 4 – Designed to Choose Ray was having a little get together, and I was there. Starky and Crash were hanging out, too. We hadn’t seen each other in a few weeks. Starky had a babysitting job for two kids that live in one of the oversized trailer homes on the west side of town. I was making revisions. They were important, and the details were turning in my head. I barely had room to notice what the conversation was about. Usually these things happened later in a party. Everyone had their girl they wanted to talk about and publicly pine over. For some reason that made everybody feel more deserving, and then the fact that they weren’t getting laid becomes some weird heartfelt tragedy. And I go to be part of the club, because I could say, “Sarah Highroad” to any question. The less I elaborated, the better for them, because they always wanted to elaborate on their own stuff. Starky even had a name, but the girl was fourteen, though, and we all kind of advised him not to expect much. It was funny. Everyone would say to Starky that it was entirely impossible, bluntly, and in the meantime, all they told me was “good luck” when the real chances of anything happening between myself and Sarah were pretty much nonexistent. And the only real up in the air issues were whether or not Ray was getting anywhere with his girl and whether or not Crash had a girl he was thinking about in the first place. These issues weren’t on my mind. I was trying to make revisions. You see, I understood this thing about reality. It happens whether you want it or not. It doesn’t matter what you’re thinking when you scratch your balls, it’s scratching your balls that becomes the measure of all the impact of that moment. I have to believe that 99% of all action is not thought based. Therefore, why fuck around with trying to stabilize the mindset. It doesn’t matter how interesting a person I am when I get hit by a car. All that matter is whether or not I can take the hit. It’s what I’ve said about the look of things. I sat up in my room for years thinking that just because I wasn’t fat and disgusting that entitled me to an eventual fuck. That’s just plain stupid. And the thinking part, all that trying to learn to think and feel the right way, that’s a waste of time if you’re a goal oriented person. Let’s face it, it’s a goal-oriented species we’re dealing with here. The blundering American male wants things, and there’s all this distortion that that tries to blur that want onto movies and books and shit, and all it serves to do is help people cower and expect some eventual greatness, great days full of hot fucking women. If the focus can be kept clear enough, you have to be able to punch through somewhere, get at least some of the impossible. And even that’s pretty silly to think of. I’m not afraid of going full steam ahead and not getting anywhere. I’m afraid of what would happen to me if I didn’t. I’m afraid of settling for a good imagination. Every time I get thinking about whether or not the world is good enough, it slows me down. When they ask those people who led extraordinary lives what they thought the best part was or whether it was all worth it, they end up saying something really plain like “sure” like they hadn’t really thought about it all, like they were too busy to even think about whether or not it was good. That’s how you know it’s good. When you run, because you know what’s behind you isn’t worth your time, but you don’t dwell on it, you don’t even think it, that’s when you’re living a good life for sure. And the only things I know I want are the only things worth getting. If that can’t be my guide, then I’ll never lead a good life. Instinct wasn’t meant to be tossed into imagining. We’re supposed to do shit, so we don’t realize that sum of all these big thoughts is nothing compared to the impact of scratching your balls and jerking off. That’s why it’s hard, that’s why it sucks, I think. That’s why the whole world is stale… because we don’t want it enough, really. We don’t want to put forth the effort of making ourselves live up to our own thoughts. We don’t want to put the time into being as great as we can imagine being. We all settle for just plain being. So, I needed revisions, personal revisions. What defines me? Well, I don’t know. I really could never say. If it’s left up to a simple matter of likes and dislikes, that’s not going to help, because the thought involved will just cancel out the whole process. I’ll end up thinking about how I don’t need new shirts or new shoes to better present what I’m all about as a person. I’ll start over-thinking the problem, and where will I be? Any closer to presenting myself? No. And you really have to tune out someone like Ray, because your friends are the first people to point out to you the overwhelming gap between what you are and what you want to be. The problem is not so much about bridging the gap. It’s all about denying that a gap exists. And suddenly, it’s all very funny, because you see yourself becoming the embodiment of an idea. You become a single set of thoughts, presented for the whole world. All that you do, if you had it together, would be the great funnel for your being, not the goddamn fuzzy window with the dead flies in it. Not too many people get past the surface, anyway. And what is it about Sarah Highroad? Is it anything she ever thought? Is it anything that requires her to relate to the hours I’ve spent alone? No. It’s time to be real honest, and abandon those hours, refuse to give them to anyone, and if I’m ritually disappointed, I’ll know I held back the best of it, swallowed it, and let it settle somewhere deep. Maybe, that’s what a soul is, then, and that’s why other people seem to have them, and I don’t feel it. It’s because a soul and a conscious are supposed to be echoes, something in you, and you’re not supposed to be somewhere deep and drowning inside of them. So, I’ve been thinking about car keys and making sure that I can get the car at any time. I started getting up at six and taking my Dad into work. On the way back from town, I’d drive around on the back roads, learning the layout, trying to beat every fear inside of traffic and pedestrians and dogs barking. It’s been hard and slow. And I’ve been thinking about money, too. Ray said that Colombo’s parents got the Internet and that I wouldn’t believe the fucking porn. He said once he got a laser printer, he’d make his own magazine and sell the pictures. Everything was getting on to higher level. I had to catch up, and selling soft-core video wasn’t going to cut it. I had to get myself some kind of real job. Once I had the cash and a car, I had the means I needed. How could you even have the vaguest sense that sex is going to happen if you can’t provide the means? The how is the first thing that must be dealt with, and then the next thing is the where? The room was improbable for so many reason. So much had to change in order for it to be a remote possibility. My mother and father thought I went crazy when I boxed up everything I had, everything that had nothing to do with me, and I put it in the basement. In four or five boxes, my whole life’s worth of toys and games and things, all outgrown officially in a day. And I know now why people get tired of things and move on. Because it doesn’t hurt so much that way. Sacrifices must be made. If it wasn’t hard, then Randy Ruth wouldn’t have had to get a tattoo. And no body would ever say it’s cool to go to prison. My mother asked if I was okay, and I asked her for some money. I haven’t bought anything, yet. I’m looking around at pairs of pants, trying to find the ones that seem best on people who look the most like me. It’s research. I wasn’t blessed with just knowing these things. I think a lot, but I’m pretty dumb. I forget things. Stuff doesn’t sink. How the hell do I know what people wear? It’s been slow, but I’ve almost decided on what to buy, but there’s so many damn things. I’ve got to shave, I know that, but what kind of razor, what kind of shaving cream, what kind of aftershave? I don’t have any fucking clue, and it’s not like there’s anyone you ask these things to. Who can you trust? Marketting, advertisers? They’d sell you shit if you’d pay for it. The only way to know is to find someone that makes things work for him the way you want them to. And who did I have to ask? Ray? If the best I could ever be was trailing behind someone who talked more than he would ever do, I might as well bury myself. Crash was just an abstract thing. I don’t know anymore. I used to hate what he was becoming, and I had a million reasons that he should just stay the same, but I think the main one was just that I wanted an excuse to stay the same. Now, I really don’t give a fuck. And it’s funny, but I don’t think I like him, and that doesn’t bother me at all. I hardly notice he’s on the planet. And I couldn’t figure out quite where to go from having cash and transportation. I had this empty room that could have been anything, but nothing struck me. As long as it didn’t matter, I left it blank, and my mother said it looked like a hospital room. She said I should get some posters or something. She said I should get some drapes. I wrote all these things down in a notebook, and I wrote, “Mr. Breakdown” on the cover. I had all these things to cross off, all these decisions to force myself to make. If you took a coin with you to decide everything, you’d probably end up being the greatest person that ever existed, because you always end up deciding on one thing for sure. Trying to have both is usually impossible, and when you settle for neither, because it’s the closest thing to both, that’s probably the saddest thing that can happen to a person. Even if it’s just grocery shopping. It’s the saddest thing. Starting is always the hardest thing. I wanted someone to pick for me. For all my talk about everyone being mindless sheep, I would have giving anything to have a professional come in and decorate my room and fix my life and tell me what to buy to be what I am. There’s so much to every person, and so much to lose in the translation between what you are and what you buy. I kept on building the list up, but I couldn’t buy anything at all. I couldn’t commit to a ball team or even a favorite color. Then, I put a date on the calendar, finally said, fuck it, and told myself that whatever I saw on that day was going to dictate the whole thing. If I saw blue, my favorite color would be blue. If I saw green, then it’s green. I’d write down everything I saw and pick between them, and if I couldn’t pick straight up, I’d do it at random. So that day, I knew I had to be prepared to see everything I could possibly see, do everything I could possible do, and watch whatever it was that might be remotely interesting, because that day would redefine my entire life. And it was two days away when I was there at Ray’s house bullshitting in his garage. The whole ordeal had made me practically forget what he was talking about when he said, “Hey, how are your things?”
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