We Started Where We Began, Pt. 2.

When I was eight years old my Grandfather, “Poppy,” took my cousin Ryan and I to see Independence Day. You know, the film where Will Smith and Bill Pullman both kicked major ass while saying some hard-ass shit like, “Welcome to Earth!”. Yeah, that movie was slayer, even though Poppy fell asleep halfway through. I lost all my skittles when the aliens helmet-head burst open like a bear trap. My cousin Ryan still reminds me that a 70 year old man was fast asleep while I pissed myself and lost my treats. I startle easily, what can I say? 

But, I think we all know who the real star of that film was, Jeff Goldblum. Goldblum played the role of the panicked intellectual, David Levinson. Levinson was a techie for a TV station, where his previous M.I.T. skills were wasting away along with time and distance between him and his ex wife. Levinson’s actions were selfish and foolish, all the way from his interactions with his father, to his persistence to find his ex wife in what felt like an apocalyptic moment for humanity. But near the metaphorical end of the surface of the man's essence, and close to the beginning of the depth of character, we truly find our purpose. At the end of the film Levinson created a computer virus that thwarted the alien invasion. The virus rendered them helpless and brought them swift defeat. He redeemed himself not only in front of his father eyes, but as well as his ex-wife. Levinson was a romantic, and romantic’s are often panicked individuals that risk it all for those they love. Goldblums role in the film reminded me of something Mark Twain once said, “Thunder is good, thunder is impressive; but it is lightning that does the work.” Depending on where you are in life, I believe that you are either the feeling or the impact, the flint or the flame, the boom or crushing rock, Will Smith or Jeff Goldblum, or lastly the thunder or the lighting. As for Laura Marie, well she was definitely impressive. 

Before I had received Laura’s text, I had been back in the states for nine months. During those nine months I have been working a menial retail job that sucks the life force from my body. My relationships with friends have altered between fractured, renewed and completely lost. It's safe to assume that ever since being back in the America’s I’ve been in a rut, and it has been suffocating. So when I got a text from Laura saying, “Hey, I’m going to be in town. I want to see you,” I became overjoyed. I responded quickly.  

That Friday night I closed the store in blur. I shut the gates with purpose, stocked the shelves with fervor and drove my ticking time bomb of a car to Bitter Alibi in record time. I may have licked a couple of yellow lights on my way. Parking my car in the parking lot adjacent from Bitter Alibi, I was frustrated because I had to park farther down the line because most of the spots were taken. My thoughts ran in circles as I walked hastily in my squeaky shoes, “I hope she can find a place to park. I hope this doesn’t deter her from coming. Am I wearing a cool shirt? Nope… just a work shirt. I look like a dweeb.” 

Before I even reached the alleyway that descended into Bitter Alibi, voices roared, terrible pop music reverberated between the walls; half sand orange brick on the right, and newly painted white brick on the left. Passing through the black gate into the alleyway I saw several bar-friends. They were sitting on the green wooden benches holding their respective drinks. Gin and tonic for Mary and Alice, a tallboy of PBR for Luke, a small chalice of Bota Box red wine for Sarah, whiskey topped with a drop of coke for Justin,  a Pineapple Sweet Water 420 for Greg and finally a nearly empty dog bowl for Greg's barely one year old Doberman Pinscher, Yuri. The dog was named after some anime I never really got but Yuri’s an attention whore that love’s people. The best part about Greg and Yuri is that we never get asked for cigarettes or money by the local homeless population that poach the street. 

I would have never made friends with most of these individuals if I was completely depressed. Often, after work I come to the Bitter Alibi for a night cap and a pleasant surface conversation. I don’t think these people are incapable of having a deep conversation, but it’s hard to get around that awkwardness when I knew that if I breached the emotional and personal barrier, they might think that they were the ones that made me cry. No, it’s not you guys, it’s just everything I haven’t told you. Either way, they were all there. Greg immediately stood up, gave me a hug, and with those big doe eyes asked me, “Brady! *hic* how are you sir?” 

“Oh, you know. Um, swell.” I sat down next time, legs shaking as if it was below freezing. “Um, how are you?”

Greg shrugged his shoulders and lifted his cigarette to his mouth while still holding on the leash of a very active and happy Yuri. 

“I’m doing well man," he said, "just same shit different day.” I nodded in agreement.  “Yeah man, tell me about," I replied.

Mary and Alice both waved at me from behind a crowd of frat boys hoping to coral them that evening. You could smell the desperation like you could smell a spoiled trout in a bakery.

“How are you handsome?!” They said in unison. 

The frat dudes turned around to look at me. “Well ladies," I began with a delicate gentry accent,  "if beauty was reflective of emotions, then I’d say I’m just as fabulous as you look.” Mary and Alice giggled, the frat dudes groaned. I gave them a wink and wandered farther down towards the large basement door that led to the inside of the bar. The big black door was caked with chalk and posters from upcoming local shows. It was illuminated by a street light; two red and one yellow. Wrapping my fist around the handle I pulled hard allowing a large gust of wind to escape into the night sky. I shuttered as the air cooled my body, what if she was already here? 

Peering around the crowded room, I saw no sign of Laura, nor did I feel that she was here. The basement room to the east was lined by the bar, bar stools and it’s stooped patrons while tables and metal chairs lined the westward wall. On this night, if you could see past the sea of heads you’d see a black spiral staircase that led upstairs, then five paces beyond the stairs were two sliding train car doors that no one, even sober, seemed to know how to operate. This was very unfortunate because those were the bathroom doors. Pushing my way through the crowd I came to the center of the maw, where my favorite bartender and close friend Liam stood.

Liam flashed a smile as wide as the brim of his flatbill hat, “My brother,” he said reaching out to me, “how are you sir?” I wanted to blurt out, “I’m fucking panicking dude!” but I didn’t. 

“Just peachy Liam, just peachy. How are you man?” 

“Oh you know, good man. Good people are here tonight.” 

“Yeah man, I ran into most of them outside.”

“Yeah dude, well, what can I get you? Whitehorse?”

“You know it, but give me a minute because I’m waiting for someone.”

Liam chuckled and tipped his hat, “Waiting for a lady?” he said grinning.

I starred at my feet, “Yeah, you know… that’s what I usually do.”

Liam extended his fist one, tapping my knuckles. “You pimp.”

“Yeah… I guess.” 

I walked back outside to still find my friends drinking, the dogs wrestling and the humidity filling my chest with extra pressure. I sat next to Greg once more and patiently waited while pretending to listen to his story about his day. I couldn’t concentrate on a single syllable, so I just clicked my shoes together and mumbled the occasional, “Yeah dude,” and “Wow.” 

A slight breeze hit me, and I looked up. 

“Hey you,” said a familiar voice. Laura stood there in a black shirt that hugged her body tightly. She was also wearing some fresh looking Hawaiian short shorts with cute sneakers. Her hair had been dyed almost a white blonde which made her milky white complexion glimmer. But her eyes though, those haven’t changed, and neither did her smile. I shot up quickly from both my seat and Greg’s story, quickly embracing her in my arms. I buried my head past her shoulders and held on for a bit too long, but she didn’t let go either. About 15 seconds had passed, we let go and Greg’s face looked as if I had just snubbed him, which in reality was true. 

“I’m so glad you’re here!” I boomed. 

Laura giggled, “Yeah me too! It’s been forever! When was the last time I saw you? Like before you moved to England?”

“It couldn’t have been that long, really?”

“Yeah dude, like almost two years!” 

“What was the last CD I gave you?”

“Moneen, red tree?”

“Yeah! And you gave me the Girls album.”

“Yes! That’s right!

“Shit that was forever ago. Well, I’m hungry and very thirsty, are you?”

Laura nodded her head like an anime doll and giggled again, brushing her hair past her ear, “yes, yes I am!”

“Okay, let's go inside.”

I didn’t even say a word to Greg as we walked away and into the inside of the bar. Weaving through the crowd I made eye contact with Liam again. He nodded as if to say, “I got you brother” and slid open the cooler door that was behind the bar. Pulling out a PBR, to which I call a white horse, he cracked it open and placed it’s frosty contents in my hand. “And what will the lady be having?” Liam asked. I looked at Laura and she stood there puzzled at the many choices for only about a minute, but as soon as she saw the Bota Box her mind clicked like cogs in watch. “A glass of red wine please.” she said. 

“You got it girl.” As Liam was poured Laura her glass of wine I looked around and realized that I had cut in line of several of the frat guys that were previously outside. One of them gave me the stink eye, but I didn’t care. It’s one of the many perks of being close with Liam, or perhaps being a regular fly on the wall at this place.

I ordered the usual, the best ramen in town, the Nighttime Bite and Laura wanted a side of season and steamed broccoli. Good god, that ramen is filled with a tangy sauce, bits of bacon, egg, scallions. It warms your entire body as it politely fills your gut in the best way possible. I was about to be in my happy place. With drinks in hand Laura and walked to the side table right by the bathrooms. Not very romantic, but I wasn’t trying to fill the place with roses either. These tables have bench that are built in the wall and then a stool on the other side. So I did my usual chivalrous thing and asked, “Bench or stool?” She took 3 seconds, “Bench please!” 

“You got it.”

As soon as we sat down Laura took a quick swig of her drink, and without hesitation demanded, “Okay! Tell me EVERYTHING about England?!”

“You want to hear everything?” I said. 

“YES!” she about yelled, and she’s not really a loud girl either. 

“I’m serious. I’m so jealous. Tell me everything.”

I couldn’t help but smirk, “Well that’s a long story.”

Like a bullet she fired back, “I’ve got all night.”

I started from the beginning. I told her about how months prior to leaving I was in love, and thought that I shouldn’t go. But I told her that I made a promise to myself on my death bed; if I beat cancer, then doing this. I continued on to the first couple of weeks where I got the job at the local “rock” pub, where I’d serve university kids cheap cocktails while the stomped around listening to Drowning Pool, Guns N’ Roses, Disturbed and AC/DC. The patrons absolutely loved popular radio butt-rock, while I walked home after a long night listening to Cecil Otter or Cloakroom. Laura pointed out that my intense music snobbery hasn’t changed a day, but that was only after her telling me that she’s seen Bayside three more times since I’ve been gone. “And Brady! When they started playing ‘These Looked Like Strong Hands’, I was like NOPE I have to go the front.” I called her a fan girl and she simply nodded. I had barely touched my noodles, she had barely touched her steamed broccoli, and our eyes hardly strayed far from each others. We couldn’t shut up.  

As I came to the lengthy close about my captivity in the Copenhagen airport on my way back home, I expressed to her that I have been in a rut ever since I’ve moved back to the States. I told Laura that working in retail has been the bane of my existence, but the bar job was keeping me sane. My relationships have suffered and my depression has flared up like a kettle about to whistle. Laura sat there the entire time, keeping poise and a cute but attentive gaze.

“And so I know I need to get out of here," I said, "I need a change of pace. You know?”

Leaning in close, with her hands tucked under chin and elbows on the table, Laura seemed to be paused in thought. Laura’s gaze looked around the table and then down at her feet, “Yeah, I know what you mean." Her posture fidgeted and the timing between her words slowed, "But," she paused,  "well, okay," she sat up and placed her hand on the table,  "let me say something.”  

This was the first time that she had seemed oddly out of place. 

“I’ve been thinking about you for a while. And sometime ago, I don’t remember when, but you posted on social media that you were thinking about moving.” Laura took a deep breath, “annnnd, I am moving to Los Angeles in February and I think you should move with me.” I was mid sip of my beer when she said this, and probably shouldn't have been. I peered over my can, trying not to choke, as if I was watching some UFO land right in front of me. “Wait, you want me to move with you to L.A.?” 

“Yes.”

Do you believe in ghosts? If i’m being honest with myself, I’m still on the fence about it. I had several odd experiences in college in what was supposedly a haunted park. Those nights make for a good story; but that’s neither here nor there. The real question is, do you believe in the supernatural? A presence, a timing, a moment, that is out of your control and beyond your understanding. Some might say that love is supernatural. The next four hours with her felt supernatural, and it was only 11:00pm. My heart beat like the build up in Perfume Genius’s distorted glitter pop single “Slip Away,” and my mind rattled with the lyrics. 

Here, I'll let you have a taste.

“Don't hold back, I want to break free

'Cause it's singing through your body

And I'm carried by the sound

Every drum, every single beat

They were born from your body

And I'm carried by the sound"

Laura talked about her music. She said she needed to find change to pursue her art, and that place was L.A. She glossed over romantic notions of starting a new life as if it was normal. I felt like I was listening to Richard Edwards, the lead singer of Margot and Nuclear So and So's before shit hit the fan. You know, where everything seems fun, and little dangerous. Laura's energy spiked with each pause, as if nanosecond day dreams were injecting her with caffeine. She’d say things like that she had been saving little bits of money here and there, making it sound feasible, or slyly reminding me that I used to live in California, harkening some feeling of rebirth within my mind. Laura was Jospeh Campbell, and her contiguous presence suddenly became the call to adventure. 

We finished dinner and walked outside to greet the newly pouring rain. Under the porch of the Bitter Alibi, in the alley way that was once crowded, now empty, we stood there alone, with our cigarettes. In one hand we held our smokes, in the other we held up phones up to each others ear. She wanted to show me her music, and I wanted to show her mine. “Here, this is something I’m working on,” I said, “it's rough, but...” Laura shushed me and gave me a lovingly but stern look, “I like it.” 

She then played me some of her music. I don't know if it was the rain or some fucking voodoo magic but as soon as it graced my ears I teared up. The music didn’t startle me, it just welcomed me. I was so proud of her. Her voice was provocative, filling and beautifully bare. As the rain pecked our skin I looked at her and said, “How are a million boys not in love with you right now?” But in typical Laura fashion she just shrugged, giggled and said, “I don’t know.” The rain stopped.

“Hey, so we have three options,” I said squirming.

“Okay, what are they?”

“We can either go next door to JJ’s, grab another drink or if you need to go…”

Laura didn’t hesitate, “No, let's grab another drink.”

I was shocked, I mean I was under the impression that she had to drive 25 miles later to stay at her grandparents. 

I double checked, “Are you sure?”

And with fly confidence she assured me, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Cool.” I responded with finger guns.

As we started walking up and out the alley she stopped me by lightly grabbing my arm, “Wait, what was the third option?” 

“Oh nothing.” 

I lied. 

I secretly wanted to invite her back to my apartment. I've been wanting to do this all night. But when she insisted on knowing the third option, my heart told me to lie. So I just told her that I just blended grabbing one more drink and JJ’s into one option. 

We went to JJ’s and drank beers in the dimly lit pit of masses. The music was loud and powerful. The lead singer of the punk band dressed in lace and a bunny mask, howling and dancing aggressively. Everything this evening was, and had been potent and visceral. Laura was standing next to me, smiling. I asked her several times if she wanted a coke, spirit or water. I asked her multiple times if she was doing well, having a good time, etc. And each time she asked me to go outside to talk, she wanted to hear me. She brought up L.A. three more times, and each time it was as if we had already bought tickets. Each time we were outside she’d scoot closer to me. Whether that was because the music bellowed so loudly that it passed through the stone walls or that regulars that knew me wanted to hang out as well. As the band finished up I asked her what she wanted to do next.

“So what would you like to do now?” My mind was panicking. We were getting closer and closer to point where either we were about to go home together, or she had a long drive ahead of her. 

“I don’t care, what would you like to do?” 

Our conversation became a game of chess.

“Well you can come over if you want or…”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

My face torqued, “Okay, well you should stay the night then since you’ve had bit to drink, but don’t worry I have three couches and each one gets distinctively farther and farther away from my bedroom.”

Laura laughed, “I’m not worried Brady. Let’s go back to your place.”

“Deal.”

We grabbed two beers to go and drove back to my apartment in my car, the rain picked back up. When we got back to my apartment we went straight to my room and sat on the floor next to my bookshelf. It's littered with Star Wars novels, odd sci-fi collections and an assortment of journals. I showed her my comic collection in the milk crate next to the shelf, pointing out several that she needed to read like The Crow or the Poe Dameron series from Star Wars. Laura grabbed a book off the shelf, “Oh, so I see you still have ‘The Things They Carried’ on your shelf.” She thumbed through the pages, “And it looks like you haven’t read it yet.” 

“I know! I know! But have you read High Fidelity yet?!”

“Nooooooo.”

“Next time we see each other, let’s get that done.”

She nodded, but before she put it back on the shelf, she signed the book upon my request. I felt as though I would never have this again. We continued to sit on my floor, laughing and swapping stories form our time together in Cambridge. We wondered and speculated where the other people that studied with us were today. Soon it was 3a.m. and Laura was still in my room. 

“Okay, so where do you want to sleep? There’s this couch and then…”

“Your bed is just fine Brady.”

“Do you want some pajamas?”

“I do.” 

I dug out my star wars pajama bottoms and tossed her the pair. Without hesitation she stripped down and put on the pajamas with me still present in the room. I wore my pokemon joggers. We slipped into bed and turned off the lights. Laura claimed the left side of my bed, rolled over and asked, “Hey, can I show you this Oasis documentary?” 

"Of course."

I agreed and we started the documentary. As the movie played we slowly got closer and closer. Eventually my arm was around her and her head was on my chest. I focused in and out of sleep, but also in and out of dread. I was currently laying next to a girl that I’ve always wanted to kiss. Years ago she turned me down, but now she was here and I didn’t know what to do. Laura’s breathing pulsed slowly as she reached a form of comfort that I had not yet settled into. My mind was racing. I didn’t want to press my luck, but at the same time she elected to stay over, sleep in my bed with me, but more importantly, Laura after two years sought me out this evening. 

The movie came to a close.

Laura shifted and sighed. 

Laura giggled for a second. 

Lastly, Laura then mumbled, “Brady…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want to do anything stupid.”

“I didn’t plan on doing anything stupid tonight.”

“Neither did I, it’s just…” her voice stuttered as if she wrote her words down on paper being carried away by the wind, “remember when you tried to kiss me five years ago?” 

My memories exploded instantly. How could I forget? It was probably in the top ten list of most disappointing stories that I have when it comes to dating. It was like asking, do you remember the 3rd time you got mugged, but that time was in a different country. Duh.

“I remember,” I said.

“I…," Laura paused, and forever happened once again, "I should have kissed you.”

“Well,” this was it. I was about to break the sanctity of what I assumed was our friendship. 

“Well, there’s no time like the present.” 

I leaned in and kissed her. There was nothing subtle, nor was there a slow build. Laura had lit the match and tossed it into a vat of bubbling gasoline. Laura pressed her mouth on to mine with delicate force. The pressure of her tongue, the individual nerve endings of her hair sweeping my face and the rusted lock of our intertwined hands struck my heart like a stone. I was peacefully drowning in the sun faded shallows beneath a weeping willow, and I was content. 

Our bodies began to naturally push back upon one another, applying pressure and force. Our hands constricted like jaws of a venus flytrap causing my heart to pulse. Laura ripped off her shirt and bra like an unneeded bandaid, and I shed my shirt in equal fashion. There was no more transparency, only the ultimate vulnerability that once existed within the shadow of hope, now revealed in the moonlight. The words from long ago, “Would you mind if…” swept through my memory like a leaf ignited, snapping beneath the weight of the moment. There was no more mystery, and this girl that I had so long wanted to kiss, was in my arms. My face began to swell with tears. 

After several moments of kissing every where we wanted, Laura paused, and looked up at me. My eyes, now fully adjusted to the darkness could see her smile. I was the most fucking lucky, stupid, panicked boy in a 1,000 mile radius. Shyly she scooted farther under me and our lungs expanded in sync as if to reach out and touch each other. Softly, she spoke while keeping delicate eye contact, “What do you want Brady?” 

I knew exactly what this meant. Her tone was seductive, caring and poised. I could see us in L.A. in her eyes. Us driving down the California One and not to that Decemberist song either. She’d be in the studio, I’d be writing and composing Pop Culture periodicals while maintaining a healthy bartending job. We’d support each other and there would be nothing but a love for creativity and passion in our house. The light of a life well done would finally shine, and we’d be outlines in the distance. Could I now be more than just a fool, and would this be the beginning of my finest hour?

Her words echoed again, “Brady, what do you want?”

My mouth, a bike without a chain, peddled furiously for words. Ten seconds felt like an eternity and an eternity felt like hell. My mind played the entirety of Pedro the Lion’s discography, backwards. I started as a jaded man, who had once watched his love pack her things and drive away to the man who humbled himself before a force that was greater than him. I knew what my body wanted. I knew what that man five years ago wanted; vindication, closure but most of all respect. I knew what lightning would do. I knew what Jeff Goldblum would do. 

Therefore, I said the only thing I could say. 

“I… I just want to talk.”

“You just want to talk?”

“Yes.”

Laura rolled me over and laid her head on my chest, “Ok,” she said sweetly, “what do you want to talk about?” 

I got out of bed, and headed to my closet, “But first, wear this.” I dug through my closet and tossed her my Dinosaur Jr. shirt. It was a very comfortable shirt.

Laura smirked in confusion, “Why this shirt?” she asked. 

“It’s because they have this awesome song called ‘Just Like Heaven’ and I feel like it will be relevant later.”

Laura smirked and snorted, "Only you," and then slipped the shirt on. 

I climbed back in the bed, sliding my fingers across her temples, tucking her hair behind her ears. She laid back down on my chest, and patted me as if to remind me that I have some speaking to do. I took a deep breath as the moonlight crept along our bodies.

“Listen, I hope this doesn’t sound weird or chauvinistic but I’ve slept with a lot women. I’ve been in love once or twice. But tonight, tonight has been the best night I’ve had with any women in the past two years. 

I feel like I can be myself around you, and when I say stupid shit, it doesn’t feel like stupid shit. 

I just feel happy, and thankful.”

“You do?” she asked sincerely. 

“Yes, yes I do. And I just wanted to tell you that.”

I could feel her smile on my chest, “Thank you Brady. That means a lot to me,” she paused with a genuine sigh, “and I’m sorry I didn’t kiss you back then, I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to be here with you.”

“It’s okay, I’m sorry about the shitty pillow talk…”

“Huh?” 

I shrugged, “What guy says, ‘I just want to talk’ right?”

“Oh,” She laughed, “only you.”

“Shut up.”

“So what about L.A.?”

“Let me think about it for a while. But I want you to know that you have my attention.”

“Good.”

The next morning I dropped her off at her car. 

Before she got in her car she kissed me and said, “Brady, I don’t regret anything…”

Later that day I called my friend Daniel. Daniel was a wise man, and carried all the traits that a wise man should have. He’s a large man that had a laugh that could fill a whiskey barrel. His beard grew like brown tangled weeds and he had tiny spectacles that he peered over as if he was going to fill a prescription. Daniel was also a new but proud father. But most of all he had a greater insight to the forces unseen. I told him everything. I told him what it was like to feel her say 'no' five years ago, and what it was like for her to ask me to 'go' with her five years later. Even though it was over the phone, I felt like we were inside the library in the religion building again. He stayed on the line, patiently and eagerly awaiting for my breath to run dry. And once it did, he said, “Brady, I think it’s going to be great to talk to you when you're living back in California.” But the second most important thing he told me was that I needed to be aware of choices I make and to be protective of my heart. I need to leave for me, and not to fulfill someone else’s desires. After we hung up the phone, I received a text from Laura. She was back in Ohio and safe. I asked her if we could talk later that night, and she replied  “That would be healthy for us to do.”

9:33 p.m., I called Laura Marie on my drive home. 

She picked up upon the second ring, and I heard her voice as if it had been a life time since we last spoke. 

“Hey,” she said.

“Um, hey.”

There was a pause. “So, I don’t know how to start this,” I said, “But um.”

“Just ask Brady.”

“Okay, so what did last night mean?”

Laura paused, “Brady,” her voice trailed.

“Brady, not to sound disappointing, but it didn’t mean anything.”

9:44 p.m. I was off the phone with Laura. 

Thunder is good, thunder is impressive. But it is lightning that does the work. 

I was the lighting, but now my words and body feel like empty thunder. But if anything, lightning that misses it mark in a lone an empty field is still brighter than the darkness of thunder. It's just hard to get past the notion that perhaps, I didn't mean anything.

That night Laura told me one thing that I’ll never forget. 

Laura told me, “Brady, I love how you can take the simplest moment and make it an incredible story.” 

Well Laura, there's your story. 

We Started Where We Began.

I have the proclivity to find myself in toxic and heartbreaking scenarios. Once I tried playing Donkey Kong Country 2 in one sitting without pausing or saving. And guess what, the power went out that night. Life’s a bitch, right? Needless to say, when I found my Super Nintendo under my bed years later with the cartridge still in its slot I remembered the black out rage that illuminated the dark bedroom it once sat in. But being the glutton for punishment that I am, I turned it on in hopes that God still loved me and had angelically saved my game progress. Nope, he didn’t and sitting there in the void was an empty save slot, waiting for me to click it and start over from the very beginning. No bananas, no Krem Coins, no balloons and most importantly a big fat 0% for game completion. That 0% cajoled the memories of my childhood of when and how I learned to swear, but more importantly what it feels like to completely start over. 

Five years ago, for the first time in my life I heard the actual negative response to the common query, “Would you mind if…” This statement is often tethered at the end with a menial request. For example: “would you mind if I had a bite of you food”; “would you mind if I grabbed one of your beers” or personally the most used “would you mind if I use your bathroom?” In plain english, the verb associated with “would” takes its order from the noun “mind," thus becoming a conditional clause. It’s as if we have already asked this question in the past, or some other parallel universe where our actions and our desires never materialized, thus needing a follow-up orally rather than being stuck with our subconsciously abstract thoughts. Basically when saying,  “Would you mind if…” it simply translates to “Bruh, I just laid down some phat auras of hopes and dreams, coupled with social queues that has not yet been addressed, therefore I’ll spell it out for you…” 

Whenever we as species ask “Would you mind if…,” we often hear, “yeah, sure dude,” which gives us the go-ahead. And technically “Yeah, sure dude,” is still a negative, but that’s not incredibly important. What is important though is the context and tone of the responder, because if the tone is as welcoming as that power outage in the middle of Toxic Tower with only two lives left, one might as well be saying, “Better luck next time bro.” Anyways, you kids ready for the story? Yeah, me too. So, now that we have the preliminaries out of the way, roughly about five years ago, the power went off again and I lost all my save progress, metaphorically of course. Her name was Laura Marie, and she brought me to 0% completion with four words.

It was roughly three weeks into January 2012, and it was freezing cold. My classmates and I just arrived back to Cambridge from visiting Bath. Bath, the home of Jean Austin and presumably thousands of people that are politely quiet about their repressed sexual fetishes. I got to meet the Mayor, he wore a Simpsons tie and had a delicate hand shake. Either way, we were back in Cambridge and I had just broken up with my girlfriend back in the Americas. We connected literally on nothing. I loved Air Force One with Gary Oldman, she asked if those shoes were expensive. I would say things like, “That women’s intellect nauseates me,” she’d say, “that bitch is rachet.” I thought chapter seven of R. Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet” was the best, she thought some dudes tractor was sexy. She loved Dave Matthews and my friends thought I was possessed or was exhibiting early signs of dementia because I could make it through the first 45 seconds of “Crash” due to social conditioning. Either way, we weren’t meant to be and living in Cambridge didn’t really give us a lot to talk about when we Skyped. So the one time we did, I broke up with her. If I was a house in Harry Potter, house Effler would have been awarded 10 asshole points. 

During the breakup process I had several close confidants, and one of them was Laura Marie. Laura, well she’s the 5’4 punk-ass that would shove you at Bayside concert because you didn’t look like you ‘believed in the music.’ Laura’s face was littered with tiny fading freckles that pop whenever it’s above 90 degrees. She’s a fan of denim, crust gear, Oasis, Star Wars, actual literature and presumably most of Toontown at Disneyland. And to top it all off she had this little snarky laugh that was more of a snort that made me want to impress her. Oh, and by the way, that shade of denim was very complimentary to her eyes. Laura, despite her soft spoken cadence, was very stern and deliberate with her words, actions and track order on any mix CD.

Laura encouraged me several times that I did the right thing when it came to ending my relationship. But little did she know though, the moment she played for me her ukulele cover of the Clash’s “Charlie Don’t Surf,” I was perplexed as to why I had not found her earlier. Therefore breaking up with “Honey-Bun” back in the Americas was the only way I could begin to get closer to her. So the grieving process wasn’t really a big deal. It was fixed with about four pints of Guinness and Laura laughing at one of my many dead baby jokes. I waited a couple of days and did the usual. I sat on my hands and waited for them to go numb so I could concentrate on the numbness rather than the emptiness from not having Laura in my life the way that I had desired. Once the numbness overpowered me, one day after class I approached her.

“So, I have an idea about Valentine's Day.”

Laura’s eye brow raised to her hairline, “Oh, and what idea is that?”

“Well,” I swallowed hard, “you’re single, I’m single and we’re just to gnarly to be bored, and feeling sorry for ourselves on the loneliest day of the year.” I was subtle back then, I know.

“Therefore, let’s go out. But like, you know, as awesome people?”

Laura was standing in the sunlight. She placed her hand over her forehead as if to see if this dude was being real. She squinted and then facial revealed that she realized I was being 100% serious. Laura smirked. 

“Okay.” God her voice was soft.

“Okay?!” I coughed, “I mean Yes, cool. That’s (awkward sounds) Um, okay but there are four rules, okay?”

I fairly positive no dude had every told her that there are rules to date before based upon her giggled sigh, “Um, rules?” she said.

“Yes, rules. Number one: No talking about our ex’s or failed relationships. Two: We gotta dress up. Three: Go dutch, or let me pay for you. And lastly, be on time.”

“Wait, you want me to be on time?”

“Yes?”

“Okay, what time?”

“Half pasted seven.”

“Half pasted seven, okay.”

“Yep, um. Thank you. I mean, have a nice day. See you soon.” Gave her the finger guns and attempted to make my graceful exit. But I about ran into a trash bin. 

“Shit!”

I looked straight at her as she stood there waiting for me to leave like a tree in the sunshine.

“Peace out… girl scout…” I walked away fast. Now we can just fast-forward knowing that I was an awkward balloon for the next several days.

It was 7:30p.m. on the 14th of February 2012, the year of our Lord. I was standing out side, behind my flat. Normally when waiting for a girl to show up I run through all the shower conversations I previously had with my self. You know, going over scenarios that are statically proven not to happen. “What if she gets hit by a bus, and I’m the one to hear her last breath. Or what if she tells me that she is madly in love with and is sitting on a pile of cash and just waiting for someone to run away with?” But I didn’t have time to go over the next 1,000 scenarios because Laura was on time. She rounded the corner and appeared before my eyes, and my astonishment was akin to Dr. Grant seeing the brontosaurus when he first arrived at Jurassic Park, Laura was gorgeous. Her brown hair was tucked back by a blue hair band with a bow. She wore small grey flats, a grey dress and draped over her shoulders was a clean denim jacket. I wore a bowtie, for the first time ever in my life.

She spoke, “Hi…”

My face exploded.

“Sup… Daaawwg? I mean, hi. Okay… let’s do this.”

I was at peak performance.

That evening we walked the cobbled streets of Cambridge as if we were extras in a new synth-pop video. At any moment I expected us to grab each other by the hands and run until we flew above this english town. But we didn’t, instead we went to a local gastro pub and laughed, the way everyone wants to laugh. I discovered that she had never seen High Fidelity, she discovered that I never read The Things We Carried. We made lists for each other as if we’d be together forever. We never talked about our past relationships, we never had an awkward moment, we never felt shy or embarrassed, it was what every date should be like. I offered to pick up the tab for the evening: One Sweet Chili Noodle Dinner, one Jacket (potato) with extra toppings, two cokes, a mildly priced bottle of red wine and one beer. She reached for the check and insisted that we go dutch, splitting it right down the middle. Laura remembered all the rules, and she subscribed to each of them with eloquence. 

As we left the pub, the evening began to glow. University students were stumbling in the streets, taxis were zipping up and down the thin roads and the wind whipped through the trees flushing out birds to decorate the living landscape. We walked close to each other and both were grinning from ear to ear. In one small moment I knew, that we both recognized the surreal nature of our situation. Not many people get to go on Valentine's Dates in Cambridge, England, but we sure as fuck were. When we arrived at the Jesus Green, which is large lawn between two of the colleges in Cambridge, the road became a small paved trail and I grabbed her hand. The turquoise sky filled it’s pockets with clouds and dim stars. The wind began to pick up, shuffling our hair in the breeze, and a slight mist began to fall from the clouds making it impossible to light up the post dinner cigarette. I made a gesture to stand under a bus stop and we scooted underneath.

I opened my pack, “Smoke?” Laura nodded her head as if I offered her a piece of licorice, “MmHmm,” she said with a smile. I lit her cigarette and then mine. We weren’t far from our respective flats, probably about a seven minute walk, max. My heart was juggling, its time. 

“Ready to go back?” I said.

“Yeah, I mean if you are.”

“Well, no, but it is getting late and we do have class in the morning.”

“Good point, yeah let’s walk back.”

We were now three minutes away from our flats. I couldn’t take it anymore. I stopped walking letting go of hear hand. She stopped and we turned to me as if she had just dropped her glove. The mist now has become tiny droplets, rolling down her face and mine. Laure and I stood under a lamp post that had been serving as a jungle gym for one ornery moth, tapping the glass veil of the bulb with precise and sharp claps from it’s wings. It was half-past eleven at night, and we had been out since seven, just the two of us out on the one night that singles either hate or use as launch pad for a hopefully successful future. Form a distance we looked like a goddamn movie poster, and I knew it in my heart.

“Would you mind if…” I stutter. “Would you mind if I kissed you right now?” 

Laura’s eyes removed their gaze from mine. They were slightly glassed over in a mid-February english mist and stray strands of hair that had fallen out of her headband had stuck to her face. My face boiled with anticipation. She looked up into my eyes and spoke.

“Yes, yes I would mind…” 

We walked back to our place in silence. If our eyes met again that evening, it would have been to fast to even remember. She told me goodnight and quickly opened the door to her place, shutting it even slower, effectively restarting my Super Nintendo heart. Didn’t even get to save my progress.

Things between Laura and I were different from then on out. I had been exposed, and my vulnerable heart couldn’t take it. For the remainder of that semester I tried to keep my distance, but she wanted to continue to be close friends. I followed her around like a lost puppy, and she enjoyed the attention.  At one point, during a final “hurrah” I made a short film with her about “a day in the sun.” Again, I tried to appeal to her heart by being artistic and prove that I could trusted and worth loving. But the video ended and she decided to go on a date with a kid who works at a pastry shop. I haven’t been able to look at a sausage roll the same way ever again.

That was five years ago, and a lot had happened for the both of us between now and then. I’ve been in multiple relationships, each of them dissolving in their own uniquely shitty way. I was diagnosed with cancer. Beat it. Went to England for Graduate school for a masters degree in Popular Culture Theory. Beat it. As far as Laura goes, we remained friends after we moved back in the summer of 2012. She’d come over to my dilapidated apartment every once in a while to listen to records and laugh. Each time I was reminded about the kiss that I never got to have. Laura even visited me after I was released from the hospital. I took her to a soccer game. She told me that she had a great time, with me. The last time I saw her was two years ago, right before I moved back to England to start my master's degree. Like we usually did, I took her to a record store and picked out several albums that she should listen too. Moneen’s “The Red Tree”  and Hot Hot Heat’s first EP that had the track Tokyo Vogue on it. Laura gave me one of her favorite records, “Album” by Girls. To which later she had tattooed on her body. When we parted she wished me luck on my studies and I told her the same at the new university she was now attending in Ohio.

Seven days ago I received a text from Laura, ending two years of silence. 

Laura: “Are you busy tonight/tomorrow? I’m coming into town.”

Me: “Tonight after 9:30 is good for me.”

L: “Bitter Alibi? I haven’t been there in forever.”

M: “Yeah dude.”

L: “Cool beans. I’ll text you when I head over.”

M: “Can’t wait :) “

To be continued…

Unicorn Barber

Last week I decided to get a haircut. This wasn’t a choice made out of tact or preexisting conditions, more or less, it was an impulse purchase. I’d like to believe that I don’t often make impulse purchases, but a decent amount of reflection coupled with the decision to write tonight begs a different conclusion from my internal denial. Either way, my hair was getting long, greasy and wild. I love it when I have long hair though. I feel carefree and less self-conscious with a large bottle of gatorade. When my hair is longer, I also secretly hope that some random passer-by would think I skate board or are some sort of freelance slam poet, you know, much cooler. But I had some money that I shouldn’t be spending and needed a pick-me-up, so I did it. After careful research I decided to check out a barber shop that all my local friends raved and fawned over, the White Oak Barber on Dayton Boulevard. I am sort of like my Father in some instances, even though I knew the general direction and address I still mapped out how to get there from work because I had never been there before. After making a silly right turn I found myself circling the block like a broken wheel on a shopping cart to avoid nearby cops and a crowded Taco Bell drive-thru. My mind was pulsing full of nerves. I had already belayed several pro and cons as to why or as to why I shouldn't spend the thirty some odd dollars for a haircut that I was certain any ten dollar “sports accentuated” salon could do. These places are an odd fixture for today's progressive standards. These places revolved around appeasing to man’s basic desire to watch sports-ball, discuss the patriarchy of delicate lawn care and latest Garfield comic while getting a military crewcut from a heavy chest woman named Misti (with an ‘i’) that refuses to call you anything else besides, “Hun.” One of these venues is literally next door to where I work. It’s called “Great Clips”, and it’s also ten dollars.

As I parked, I realized I was about a block farther than I should have been and walked down the sidewalk in the blustery Tennessee air. When I’m making an impulse decision, I often approach as if I was going to go in the curtained off room in the back of a local mom and pop video rental store. I don’t tell anyone where I’m going, what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. I keep my head down and refuse to make eye contact with anyone that could possibly have similar facial features of my kin. As I walked into the barber shop, my social fears had been realized in an orange lit oaky room with large checker board tables; large southern white males were everywhere in baseball caps splaying local college football teams and gabbing about sports. I saw only one gentlemen with chewing tobacco in the lower pouch of his cheek, but statistically there were more, just being factual folks. He sat next to me. Had I made the wrong decision? Was it too late to get out? Well, if I hadn’t placed my name in the queue then yes, yes I could have escaped. The only thing that made sense and bonded with my social anxiety was that touch-pad screen that required my name and phone number, but it was also now the gatekeeper. It allowed me to request a specific barber of my choosing, but I had not clue who was beyond in the next room where the large checker board mats and professionals, so I selected, “ANY”. Its blue glow taunted me as I could see my name now, “BRADY — NEXT AVAILABLE — WAIT TIME — 15 MINUTES.” The large dude shifted in his cushion as I took the only seat available next to him. He flipped through the Motortrend magazine, which has no half-naked women in it, just engine stats, so I was certain he was just looking at the size of the trucks pondering how a nice set of “Truck Nuts” would look on the undercarriage. It’s okay to comment on how I was being incredibly judgmental and crude, I get that, but I can’t help but be transparent. Perhaps one day, you will be too. 

A husky voice called out, “Keith, come on hun.” The large burly man was Keith, and the redheaded heavily chested barber that had emerged gave him a firm motherly look as he grunted and feigned setting down his magazine as if he was really reading how the 2017 Volvo V90 Cross Country T6 AWD was “not just for pansies” anymore even though it’s technically a wagon and incurably spacious for a family of five. I call your bluff Keith. You wouldn’t be caught dead in that wagon even if you won it at The Price Is Right. For the sake of this piece though, the barber that Keith went with, her name is now Jewel. Keith waddled up to Jewel and exclaimed that he wants it “Not to much today, juh bored today ma’am.” Jewel folded her arms and scowled, “Your ole lady ridding that back of yours again?” Keith was caught. Sold out by Jewels natural cunning wit and peppery discernment. “Well, you know her, squallerin’” Jewel, that fiery minx. She wasn’t having it. “Just sit down Keith, I’ll do what I know she like. Okay hun.”  Keith had lost , “Ye’ ma’am.”

I was on the edge of my seat, feeling around 50/50 about the current situation. As much as I was loving this rustic medley, I couldn’t help but feel as though I was about to be “sat in one dem seats” under the same scrutiny. I have no ole lady, nor do I have the social reservations to not say something incredibly dumb. If you’ve met me then you know, I’m a twat. But then it came, my name. As if a jester or Pierrot had been hiding behind my seat had jumped up and turned to the audience to mime my discomfort for an invisible audience, My stomach grumbled and my face scrunched as a Unicorn rounded the corner and became the face to the voice behind my name. 

She. 

Was. 

Fucking. 

Stunning. 

Years ago, during my first unicorn encounter, one of my closest friends made an incredibly astute comment. “You never go out looking for a unicorn, you always stumble into them while walking sideways.” And one that very day, I was zig-zagging like a lost girlfriend in the circle pit of a Bane concert. “Brady?” She said radiantly, “Are you ready?” No, no I am not. 

“Buhhhh, yeah, I guess,” that was my prototypical squat response. “Well,” she waved her hand towards her station, “come on then.” Now would be a fantastic time two interrupt this story and comment on two things that you believe had ANY context to this story. Number one, I have been incredibly depressed for the past four months, Secondly, I have had Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Games” stuck in my head for the better part of nine days. I don’t know about you, but I am now getting to the point in my life where melancholy songs about the loss of love or the forbidden nature of love are permeating my emotional disposition like the richness of grandmas chocolate cake that hasn’t been fully digested. These songs are pushing me farther and farther into an emotional coma. 

As I treaded towards her station I fumbled around my pockets hoping to find my phone so I could conveniently distract myself and hopefully seem aloof and cute. Looking to my right Keith was still getting a talking to by Jewel. Something about listening or paying attention a woman needs like a bubbling crock-pot. “Now that crock-pot, it ain’t supposed to boil Keith.” God I wish I was Keith, because then at least I’d already have my narrative ready and not feel like Robin Williams in the movie Jack. I sat down. She fringed the barbers bib over my like a blanket upon fresh grass. 

“My names Lleana by the way.”

“My names Bra…”

“So what are we doing today Brady?”

“I.. I’m tired of looking like,” I couldn’t think, “tired of looking like…” she stared at me. “ …a troll.” And there it was, the start of my social skills beginning to deplete. I’m just proud of myself that I sat down correctly. I almost thought it appropriate to sit ‘Indian Style” but no one, no one ever does that in a barber shop.

“A… Troll?”

I bit my lip, “Yeah… or I mean. Like, normal again? I don’t know. You’re the professional. I just don’t want to have long hair anymore. Going for a drug test soon.” 

Long ass pause.

“Just kidding.”

She took a step back and rubbed her hands through my greasy hair as my thoughts screamed bloody murder. I should have fucking showered before I came in, or at the very least wore some cosmic cologne. 

“Well, you don’t look like a troll to me,” Lleana said smiling, “and I rather like long hair.” 

Was she saying I shouldn’t be here?

“But we can do whatever you want,” Lleana continued with in a bright cadence,

Shifting in my seat I replied, “Well, how about a little off the top.” Lleana buttoned the back of my barber’s bib and let out an inquisitive tone, “Oh, that’s a cool shirt you have on. What is that?”

“Oh, it’s a Skyrim shirt… it’s about dragons…”

“I know what Skyrim is.”

“Oh.”

“So just a little off the top,” she came around and examined me from the front. Lleana had long dark hair that rolled down her back like a silk tapestry. Her eyes burned with notes of hazel from freshly roasted coffee and orange hue from a setting sun. Lleana’s eyes were complimented by her diamond pierced victorian nose, guarded by balanced and gently placed freckles that sparsely pollinated her skin. Lleana rolled up her sleeves on her well worn cotton blue shirt as she ran her hands through my hair. Wind, wind through November leaves. Her brow sighed into as relaxed state as she examined me. “Mmm, actually lets just do more on the sides.” Both arms were heavily tattooed, some old school sailor jerry style, others, unique and dressed in pixel dots and symmetrical designs. My body began to relax, and my mind began to soften with each passing glance as she studied the grooves of my hair. Stepping back from me, Lleana folded her hands together, “How long have you gone without a hair Brady?” 

“It’s been months.”

“I can tell.”

“Last time I got my hair cut, it was done by a turkish man with only sheers and refused to call me anything but lad”

She giggled with curiosity and stepped back behind me. I could hear her rummage through her scissors and other utensils. Her voice changed from nurse to friend; the ending syllables proceeding down in pitch,"A turkish man? Where was this?”

I sighed “Oh, well, it was in…”

“Brady could you take off your glasses for me?”

I immediately fumbled for my face, making the barbers bib flutter like a parachute, “Oh, yeah, sorry.”

“You’re fine dude,” she said sternly. “But where was it you said you had it done last?”

“Um, England.”

Each syllable now in a fluttered pitch,"In England? Wow, why were you there?”

For the next fifteen minutes I gave Lleana the highlights over my overseas adventures. It was like the beginning of the song “Pretty Pathetic” by The Smoking Popes. A melody, sung grotesquely cute by a nasally Chicago pop-punk icon; I felt a thousand feet high. With each new chapter Lleane would stop cutting my hair, “Wait, so this one girl, who wanted to sleep with you threw up all over your bar while you were working and said, ‘sorry about the mess’ on her way out?!” 

“If you can believe it, yes!” I almost screamed. She stepped back and lifter her arms in the air, “Dude that’s fucked up. Okay, okay, so what happened next?”

My mouth raced to keep up with my endorphins, “Well, I have a terrible gag reflex…”

“Nooo!”

Admittedly I peppered in some ‘flexible details’, but for the most part I stayed true to actually events. Near the end of the hair cut she meekly asked me why I came back to the United States. I really had no answer for her, so I made something up. I told her that my parents needed me to come back home and I felt obliged to be back in the states. I even went on to say that I was getting bored, and homesick. I tried to convince her that I was some sort of philosophical entrepreneur who could shape his life however he wanted, but in reality, I’m just a depressed dude with Wicked Games stuck in his head who thinks he’s getting his hair cut by a unicorn. Needless to say, my hair cut was fantastic. As I got out of my hair I gave her an eight dollar tip and told her that I’d be back as soon as body would allow it. She thanked me and smiled I walked past a folded up Motortrend on the bench where Keith was earlier. He was gone and now Jewel was giving another regular their usual. 

Walking out of the barber shop I felt indifferent though. My thoughts were scrambled and my body was shivering. All I could think about was that I haven’t had a weird and genuine conversation with a stranger that knew nothing of me or my past ever since I left the UK. I recalled the first few days of being back. Not being able to fully answer or be honest with my friends as to how I was doing, or where I was going. I borrowed money and ungratefully returned the favor with pop-tarts and social quips about how “that’s not how they do it over there.” I’ve lost that magical charm I used in stand up comedy to make crowds giggle and calm my own personal anxiety. I’ve been unmotivated to reach out to those who once truly required my humor and spontaneous gimmicks. I have even completely lost touch with one of my closest friends from my college days. He was able to cheer me up no matter what,  even when I had cancer.  Nothing is the same here, and neither am I. I have been living in my sister's new house with her boyfriend, working a shit retail job which feels like being behind on the bills of “life”. Leaving England has taken a quantum toll upon my expectations, and I don’t believe I am living up to any sort of “passable” or “enjoyable” standard.

As Lemuria’s emo power-pop hit, Hawaiian T-Shirt goes, “Every funny guy has a serious side,” my serious side has gone beyond a simple cold chill and to full blown ammonia. I’m asking myself, why am I writing about a fucking hair cut? Why am I nit-picking large southern men, or failing at basic human communication? Perhaps because I’m going through the sharpest growing pain of my life, what to do next. 

Believe me when I say that I have no earthly idea on what to do. But so far, the only thing that makes sense is pick up right where I left off with these blog entries, what happened after Scully? Well my friends, that’s the epic of Edge Hill University and the songs that accompanied me during one of the strangest, but yet most gratifying parts of my life. Perhaps I’ll start with Halloween Night at Odyssey.

October 31st, 2015…

I didn’t have a costume…

[Bands/Artists Mentioned: Chris Isaak, The Smoking Popes and Lemuria]

P.S. Found out two days ago that she's engaged. 
R.I.P. Unicorn Sighting 2017-2017

Your Own Ending.

Your Own Ending

When I was a child I read these teen horror fiction novels called Goosebumps written by R.L. Stine back in the mid to late 90’s. My grandfather, Poppy, would take me to the book store every once in a while. Poppy liked to balance out my intake of action figures with literature, and since I wasn’t really apt to read Byron at the age of eight, I bought Goosebumps. As I look back on it now I don’t know how my 70 year old grandfather thought a child's novel about people being stripped of life due to a haunted camera would be healthy for a kid that simultaneously  thanked God for boogers and farts in Sunday school. But he just wanted me to be happy. Either way, Stine is famous for books like, The Night Of The Living Dummy and Say Cheese and Die. These novels were creatively fun, slightly scary and also a rich environment for a child's imagination, and my imagination grew like fractals.

 Eventually I wrote my own little sadistic stories. I wasn’t concerned with being published since I still couldn't spell “library” to save my life. Was it liberry or Liebary? I didn’t show anyone these tales, and they are probably deep in an underground ashes pile below my old tree fort in Healdsburg California right now. Either way, in one of my stories the main characters were swallowed up by an evil vacuum and the only way to destroy it was to lure the neighbors robotic cat into a confrontation with the usurper. The robo-cat would hack up its fur-vomit and the vacuum would be sent back to the fiery depths of hell... where chores came from. There was also one where the chevalier of the story was sentenced to pick weeds out of his mothers garden for the rest of eternity as punishment for letting the princess kiss the big baddy. I was a fairly melodramatic child. Eventually the hero picked enough weeds, and the watcher of the eternity took pity on him, had a change of heart and allowed him to play video games with his lady love. Either way, I liked creative endings where I won, but only because of the presence of heart, not for my actions.

As I got older and read more Goosebumps, Stine started writing novels that had a “choose your own ending” portion or scenario. In these books your heroes would come to a gritty and macabre scenario, then Stine would offer you what felt like an ethereal option. In bold blood black letters it boomed, “Turn to page 83 to find your heroes in peril” or “Turn to page 120 for your heroes to meet someone they never expected…” Now naturally, being the young little gremlin that I was, I would turn and read the first page of both endings in order to make my assessment on how my heroes would continue. I started this habit because I learned the hard way by unknowingly picking the tragic ending, and my little heart couldn’t take it. THEY ALL DIED AND IT WAS MY FAULT.
I never reread the novel.

I couldn’t even go back and cognitively apply the happier ending either, for in my mind, once they died, they were dead. The sorrow that I felt for their peril suddenly felt incredibly close and personal. It was as if I dragged them to the foggy quagmire  myself to have their eyes balls sucked out by the Werewolf janitor to be turned into ice cream for the local treat truck. I don’t know if I realized it, but I was becoming acutely self aware. Choices matter, and everything in life is oddly interconnected. We could always be forty pages away from becoming revolting goop. What was ironic though was that the section where the heroes encounter peril, they made it out safely because in a pinch the marginalized kid developed the ultra secret weapon to defeat darkness, whereas what appeared to be the safer option of the two, “Meeting someone they did not expect," that turned out to be some zombified hero from the past that ended their journey in a real desolate manner. Talk about Psych 101 for the age group terrorized by whats happening to their penis as they stare at the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated in the line at Safeway.


Either way, as I got older I thought about these… duel endings. I thought about them a lot. The potential duality of life afflicted my decisions on whether or not to put The Offspring on the mix cd for my senior year crush or if I should take the long drive home after being diagnosed with cancer. Whenever I felt that there was a decision approaching I begged the heavens to at least let me see the few seconds of the beginning of each choice, or at least still have my grandfather present at the check out counter; I don’t want to pay for these decisions myself. I’m sure the spirit of R.L. Stine is chuckling somewhere in a foreboding oak tree, or he’s proud that the creation of garden gnomes anthropomorphizing Leatherface made a preteen think about hyper-realities. I’d like to think that Stine prepared me for these, these… choices. But in the end, these are choices without an alternative page to turn to. So I would say fuck it; I replaced The Offspring with Alkaline Trio’s “Every Thug Needs a Lady” and took the long drive home that night so if I felt the need to cry, my tears would dry up long before I saw another human being. Its safe to say that I felt fucked each and every time I saw my life potentially diverting. My mind goes haywire, like, what if I accidentally picked the wrong ending? There’s no going back. And if I pick the “good” ending, how do I even know that this is the good ending, for how do we understand the light without the dark. Oh, my god… so this is what drove Schrödinger crazy. Each choice creates a new road of memories within my mind. And each choice that closes one road and then continues me down the other. So, by the age of 28 I now have thousands upon thousands of abandoned roads of memories and thoughts.

Which brings us to today.


Floating deep within the human ether my subconscious dashes like a fox on these abandoned roads. It clutches my happiest memories in it’s retracted toothy muzzle with a sly grin as it scampers from my grasp. I’d like to argue that every once in a while I get close enough to catching him; fingers teased by a single bristle or two from it’s fleeting tail. The foxes bristles prick my skin as a needle would if they drifted like leaves in the wind. Alas though, I get slightly distracted by these metaphorical dead ends on a daily basis, and I am confronted and reminded about the choices that I made and those that I left behind. As I pondered this in the shower two distinct memories emerged from the mire to the tip of my tongue. About eight years ago I stood amongst broken picture frames and in front of a very exasperated, but newly birthed ex-fiancé in Cleveland, Tennessee. Eight years later, and almost 28 days ago I slept on a stiff empty bench in an uninhabited airport in Copenhagen. Each of these memories aren’t what the fox keeps from me, in fact, these memories would be the dirt that it has kicked up as it disappears in a cloud of dust.

These memories were the result of bold choices. The first was to finally say, “No” to an abusive relationship and the second was because I said, “Yes” to an experience of a life time. And sometimes I wonder what life would be life if I had reversed those decisions. Where would I be in life right now? If I had said, “Yes” to the engagement, would I have gone to England for a masters degree? And if I said, “No” to getting my masters would I be here right now writing this awkward diagnostic of my life? And because of these “major” choices that I’ve made, there have been a slew of other roads that were created and also more that were abandoned. And as of right now I am reflecting on the choices that I made that has lead me to what appears to be irreversibly depressed, broke and wishing that I was back in the hospital. I mean, if I was back in the hospital right now, I wouldn’t have to worry about getting fed, what excuse I would tell my friends on a Friday night that I can’t go out because I can’t afford a PBR. Or I wouldn’t be focused on why I haven’t been able maintain an intimate relationship longer than a few months. When I was in the hospital before, it allowed me to have the ultimate “get out of jail free” card for social interactions. People had to come to me. I was stationary. I was a beacon. I was a thought, an idea and an icon rather than an adult with a name and tainted past who cries at night because he has no clue who he is anymore. Perhaps it’s unhealthy to drag the past to the surface, but when everything in this world seems to be interconnected, it’s hard to ignore what I’ve gone through.

Years ago I heard this metaphor that attempted to described the difference between how men and women think. The metaphor goes like this:  A man is like an Ego Waffle. The waffle has tiny square divots that catch and compartmentalize the flowing butter and maple syrup. Each thought, or in this case, sugary goodness, finds its proper place in little chambers. If one so chose, they could eat each square individually. Whereas, a woman, she is more akin to a plate of spaghetti. Everything is interconnected, and it’s hard to single out a single noodle or thought without having catching others in the fray. So, to put it simply: Men can focus on the bite size pieces of life, whereas women see the bigger picture. Each have their strengths and weaknesses. I don’t believe this metaphor applies to continuing the binary divide between genders though. In fact, after some focus in the shower, my experience opinion causes me to believe that this is the difference between the uplifted and the depressed when analyzing life choices. I am currently looking through my leatherback journal that I took with me to England, and each page is littered with someone who is lost and trying to figure out who they are by assessing their past choices. My journal, my life, it is a plate of spaghetti, but it’s the plate of spaghetti that I chose.

Earlier in this blog I wrote about a girl name Scully, and how she changed my life when it came to looking at love. As much as I would like to continue the story of her, it is over and I have drained that cow of its milk. So what is there to assess now? Perhaps the beginning of England; the beginning of the new narrative that has lead me here. So, if you are reading this, please give me time because I do have a story to tell. There were faces that I’ll never forget, and names that still cause my hands to shake as they exit the bullet chamber of my mouth. And yet, after everything, I still don’t know where I belong. While I was there I dated a girl much younger than I due to heartbreak,  preoccupied my drinking habits by taking money under the table a local pub, I bloodied my eyes with literature, lost friends as fast I gained them, and finally, finished the dying promise I made, get a masters degree in England.

So let’s begin with day one…

Day One: Cool.

Standing in my eight by ten cell of a room I held the phone in my hand as if to take a selfie. My hand trembled. This is new, I thought. Why are my hands shaking? Probably because I haven’t eaten for 8 hours. I just need to hold the phone still long enough to record my self for Scully.

 “Hey, so I made it…”, my voice cracked… fuck.
I looked down at my shirt in embarrassment.
It still smelled funky fresh from the 9 hour flight and hour-an-a-half cab drive to campus.
“I’m finally here, In England.”
My lips curled, and my nose twitched. 4000 thousand miles, a five hour time difference and a shitty wi-fi signal was all we had. It was all I had. I looked back at my self in the phone’s video. It was still recording, say something.

“And, uh… I smell like shit…”

My hand shook. I was becoming blurry in the video message. Maybe that’s what I’ll be, a blur.

“…I miss you.”



To be continued.