"What's your problem?" She squeals with her high-pitched voice. They speak as though they were friends and in heated conversation.
"Nosey people who don't know better to mind their own business and refrain from using their misguided sense of understanding to pass judgment on other people's affairs." This wasn't going how he wanted it too. She simply stumbles off, miffed by the insensitivity of people as she attempted to reach out. However, he knew she had no intention of finishing what she started. "Way to go." Rolling his eyes to the back of his head. He can’t help being an asshole. Damn! "Bar tender?" He motions her over and requests two Atomic Lemonades. He knew women like these kinds of drinks, choosing them over the traditional beers and hard liquors. They wanted something that added an edge when they went dancing. She hands him the drinks and he hands to her a ten-dollar bill, motioning that she can keep the change. As he navigates through the surging wave of people, his eyes dance from figure to figure, finding the residual projection of them selves as it extends above them and intermingles with the people they are with. It was as though tendrils of Odic essence attempted to reach out to those they wanted to be near, to exchange within hope and amplify their thoughts and emotions. Some were receptive to the tentacles, allowing the energy to melt with them, into them. However, many were unreceptive, evolving into a clash of Odic Sensitivity as the tendrils intertwine and snake together in a battle of constriction. Suddenly, personal space became non-existent as people clash while they pass, disrupting previous battles of opposing personalities. People walk away from one another, their tendrils lashing out at everyone as they walk, where the effect's pass unnoticed. The rapid pulses of flashing lights, over the dance floor, briefly reveal moments of surging as threads of silver and speckled glitter elongate from various peoples' heads. They quickly dissipate into the smog of cigarette smoke that collects around the rafters of the ceiling. Suddenly, the motionless presence of people constricts his path. They form a disjointed collage in gathering as they clump together to form a barrier. They deter the passage of people without a care or interest. Nor are they interested in taking notice that they do so as they believe that people should find an alternate route around them. James stops and looks upon them, recognizing some faces as there eyes search out the dance floor for eye candy. He stands, patiently waiting to be noticed, as the four men maintain their adhesive bond, shoulder to shoulder with their eyes looking outward upon the waves of dancing bodies. One of the four turns to face him, as his presence borders on the challenging. This one did not enjoy being looked upon and wanted to make it clear. As James looks into his eyes, within that brief moment, the man's life seemed to age to a crippled, misshapen form, crushed within metal, plastic and pulsing red and blue lights. The situation had the air of a drinking related accident, where he was either the victim or the assailant. Within that flash the man's life appeared to end. James quickly returns to the here and now, as he sees the man return his attention to its previous focus. A moment more and James walks away, his drinks gaining weight in his hands. Upon the realization, he questions the origins of his motive that would explain the why he has two Atomic Lemonades in his hands. He certainly did not like the taste of such a drink, preferring a simple mix to lemonade. However, this impending weight carries in his head as though the memory left a hole where its absence should have been filled with an image. The whole why comes into question; why am I here, why do I feel so alone, why do I hold these drinks? Why should I know his death? The act doesn't end with the first. It progresses as he finds others whom exchange direct eye contact with him, their tendrils reaching out for his. His, simply curl up around him, creating a shell, a defensive barrier as they twine upward, around his silver thread. The tips of their tendrils touch his envelope, sweeping upward as though they were licking him, leaving a residue of ectoplasm upon the surface of the barrier. The ethereal substance dissipates in the astral realm, leaving him with the vile taste of industrial chemicals and cigarette smoke to burn the root of his tongue. The flood of sounds, smells, lights and images fills him with rhapsody, bringing the substance of his stomach to thicken at the base of his throat. The weight boils then bursts upward into a burp with the hint of fluid bile. He stands motionless within the flood, drowning within the weight of its existence, where the parameters remain abstracts of uncertainty. He stands alone, consumed within the darkness of an ethereal cloud. Suddenly, a cold tendril reaches out in a froth and envelopes him with its passing. The astral world shudders as his flesh curls upon the bitterness where the flash dies within the dancing flood of lights.
The onus of emergence falls within the pulses of the throbbing music, drawing him into the void of a drowning pool where people move away from his position. It was as though they felt the shudder, as though the cold seemed to emanate from him and not from within the astral realm. The rapid flashes of sparkled lights reflect from off the back of his eyes, where they take a different shade, then die. The pasty faces of the onlookers watch his descent, as though he were the alien emerging from within the intestines of a spacecraft and onto the dance floor. However, their attention lapses for a brief second as he marshes on past them and into the rows of tables where people sat in conversation. The weight of her eyes, piercing him as he emerged from the shower of strobe lights, felt as though she focused upon him in both vision and thought. He notices her in her corner, alone at a table filled with empty drinks and a spoiled ashtray. She fixed her stare upon him, as though she were waiting for him to emerge from the wave of thrashing bodies. She anticipated and notices his presence. 'Maybe I do underestimate people.' He thought as he looks upon her, shame and guilt filtering through the changing colors of his face, from the room. His appearance did not impress her and he couldn't blame her. Yet, he approaches with his drinks becoming more prominent in his hands as he carries them. The answer comes into focus as he stops beside her and places the bottles on the table. "Hi." His voice flutters under the thunder of music and her rage.
At first, no acknowledgment as she continues to glare upon him with tightly pierced lips and wrinkled, drowned eyes.
"A peace offering. I'm sorry for what I said back there, and on how I treated the situation. I wasn't wanting to insult you, or to attack you."
"And a couple of drinks is supposed to help convince me of your intent?"
"No. They're simply a symbol of my desire too recumbent my previous blunder and to show to you my intent of that want, in making a sacrifice of myself for you."
"Who talks like that?"
"It's the purest form I can think of, as I dwelt within the knowing that I insulted you, without really wanting too. It is for you to accept or to deny my plea, in which case I will leave. However, I simply wanted to tell you I'm sorry."
She returns a puzzled stare as he hands to her one of the drinks. She assumed that both were for her, and then she realized that if she accepted the drink, he might have wanted to try the conversation again. Therefore, he wouldn't be without anything to drink. "You're presumptuous."
"Am I?" It begins.
She offers a smile. He was tenacious if at all anything - perhaps misunderstood. She slowly raises the bottle, cold in her palm, to her lips. Her eyes first scan the dance floor, as though looking for reassurance, that this would be fun. She swallows and smiles a little more, feeling the remnants of the liquid, propelled by an explosive force from within the bottleneck, drip down her lips and jaw. With her left forearm, she wipes the fluid and swallows. Suddenly, laughing at the image of what she must have looked liked to him: sultry and flirtatious. He returns her smile, yet dismisses her anxiety as though it were beyond his reach. He drinks and ponders, carefully measuring his words, as he so often felt he had too.
"So... Are you a Psych. Major?" He speaks loud enough to penetrate the boom of the music.
She looks at him, puzzled at his manner and accuracy. She nods a rapid chin nod and pierces her lips. "Yeah." She spoke, but her word was silent under the music. 'How did you know?' Her soliloquy silently flooding her mind, filtering through her eyes, the look that betrays. He knows more than he speaks, that much is obvious. "That obvious eh?" Her head bobs forward as her nose slightly lifts then tilts. Her lips curl as she realizes her betrayal and giddiness. The music suddenly becomes welcoming to her feet. She begins to dance under the table, a crippled and lonely, almost sad dance.
"Not really. It was just a stab in the dark. How do you like it?"
"It's not bad. You in Psych?" She asks as he tilts his bottle to his mouth, he commands so much attention.
"No. I'm just... There."
"I know what you mean." Laughing again at his grimace. He was very articulate and animated as he spoke.
"I don't know where I want to take this, my mother says I should stand my ground and make a choice. But, what's me? What defines me best? I'm kind of lost - you know what I mean?"
She nods in reflection then stares at the floor with a kind of yearning. He notices her response, but avoids the question 'Jennifer' the name lingers in his mind.
I can't... "If it's fate that I'm destined to, I'd like to avoid it at all cost." He fires, out of left field.
"What?" She ask, genuinely confused at his statement.
"Fate. If we are predestined to some kind of Mystical Plot, I'd like to avoid it. I don't like the idea that there are strings that manipulate our every outcome.”
"I don't know if it's like that." She questions with a giggle, a discussion far too serious for such a night. "You like to think a lot don't you?" She offers with a smile.
"Only when I feel guilty." He returns the smile, one far less discomforting then the ones he offers to Jennifer.
"What do you have to be guilty about?" Grabbing her drink, her face carrying the burden of question and unease.
"Lots." As he looks around - another tragedy stems from the eyes of a passer by. His death found at the bottom of the cold ocean, where arctic water rushes into a confined room, like one found on a sinking ship or crumbling oil platform. A cold chill bears down over him, a potent sensation that dowses him with the image of black fog. Fear is the greatest of reapers as it claims you from behind. Never honorable, never when you suspect it, a cruel joke that could never be shared by the butt of it. He shudders from the elapsed pain and cold then returns his look to her. She smiles, then notices the change in his eyes, almost a mad glitch as a halo of white radiates from him under the pulsing of black light, where no white light exists. He looks upon her and finds peace and solitude. However, she sees pain, anxiety and suffering - almost madness and rage veiled within the folds.
"What?" She questions, replacing her drink.
He shakes his head as though to refuse her, but his eyes carry the weight of his thoughts, his emotions. With an extended pause, he thinks, calculates and measures but finally, he answers. "There is no god. If there were, there wouldn't be this suffering, this malignant cancer that claims us all and finishes us with tragedy. He simply can not be."
"What?" She urges, both out of confusion and the inability to hear him. Her posture shifts as her shoulders begin to display the weight of her lack of desire to carry on a serious discussion of theology and philosophy.
James simply wanted to talk, to be with others, among others for a change in atmosphere. But, in the end, too few realized the importance of life, the meanings of why. Too much hinges on entertainment, and not enough on reality, the controlling influences that compose the everything, the us, the pain we endure for a shot at existence. "I'm sorry." He intones, bowing his head in disappointment. In who, he is unclear. But his feelings are undeniable. She, in the end, didn't care for such subjects that dealt with faith, fate, and inevitability. She felt them heavy topics for conversation in a night out at the club. He gathers his drink, cupping it under whitening knuckles where the sweat saturates his fingers and drip to a residual pool on the table. His feet carry the burden of eternity as he turns without saying a word and fades in the crowd of dancing bodies. The pain in his head pulses, piercing the folds of his thoughts and dig into his conscience. At this point, more then at any other, he wanted to be alone, on his own and away from his shame.
She watches him reach for his drink, turn without saying a word then fade beyond the mass of light, music and bodies. Her shock suspends her as she watches him disregard her and leave without so much as an explanation. Something she fears will be the norm for the rest of her life - The lost of explanation.
As he makes his way to the front, he notices Benny at a table where few familiar faces stare back at him in acknowledgment. He smiles, a crippled cruel smile, as though one that has been rejected. But the fact is, he rejects himself where the pain makes it all too real. He doesn't want to face them, to see them, address them. It's always the same, the accusation in their veiled questions. They abhorred him without a doubt; they simply did not know the why and this betrayed him. For he knew, at least suspected why. He commands so much for one who wanted little, expected nothing and demanded so much from him self. He excelled, without trying by the virtue of simply being. Everything for him is instinctive, almost uncanny and this they abhorred, for they could not even fathom the why. The how it is that he can, but they can't. But we are all blessed with our own talents. It's only in the listening; hearing and accepting that allow it to be. And this was the onus, for many failed at least in one of these steps, if not all.
He finds Benny, immersed in his story, perhaps the one where James set off the security alarm in the school Library yesterday, or of something else James did that was funny. Not that everything in Ben's life revolved around James. But Ben found things of enjoyment that surrounded James, which made him unique beyond exception. However, James hated the attention, the adulation, if you could call it that. James turns away, facing the door and continues outside with the beat and lights stemming off behind him in a torrent wave of madness. As he reaches the door, the hairs on his arms charge and jolt as though in warning. With the opening of the door an arm reaches for his shoulder, gripping him in a far more violent grasp then was intended. However, he knew that it wasn't meant as an attack. He turns around, stopping to face the hand first, looking upon the hairy knuckles with short golden hairs that form curls under the pitch of the cold breeze from the outside world. He follows the fingers to the hand then the wrist, forearm, where the hairs remain as gold, but the curls change to fine points that push back from the force of the breeze. Then the black sleeve of the shirt as it coils around the elbow revealing enough of the bruise sustained from last weeks wrestling bought against a guy from Amherst. Suddenly his upper shoulder stiffens with his face peaking to a dull pale flesh tone with iridescence native to the land of 'Clubdom'. Then the weight of Benny's face as it looks upon in quasi disappointment and question. "What's going on?" Voices boom as his eyes probe James for a relevant answer. However, the darkness consumes his eyes as he looks back and within Benjamin, almost through him, piercing the astral form and finding the same halo that covered Jennifer earlier that day. He sees it again, that same, sick aura which brought weight and pain. His pain yields, collapsing steady knees and bringing for the taste of the Atomic Lemonade to bring forth to the root of his tongue. James collapses, rushing for the support of Benny's extended elbow. As he falls back, he hits his head against the frame of the door and falls through it, the door opening against his body's urging.
Ben struggles to support him, as he watches him clash with the doorframe and fall outside, onto one of the doormen.
‘...But death happens to even the best of us.' The words capture him as he falls against a solid form and this time hands reach to grab him in a bear hug. The grip constricts, folding around his chest cracking ribs as they do so. As the vision returns into his eyes, he finds Benjamin negotiating with the readied fist of the Doorman, coiled and aimed for James's face.
"Hold on, hold on..." Ben demands as a circle of patrons form outside, curious to the events. "He tripped... He only tripped... Everything's cool." His voice carries off the wind like a hollow chord against the black. “Let him go.” They stare on passively, ready. “Let him fucking go...” He continues to demand. The second of the two doormen circles around James, his eyes piecing together the intent as he focuses into the eyes first then the clawed fingers as they dig into Ben’s forearm. He then shifts toward Ben then the door and finds nothing more then emptiness.
“Come on.” Ben urges once again as he tugs against James and the Doorman who holds him.
“It’s okay, let go of him.” He stops and turns to face James and his partner.
“Go home.” He orders, his voice low over the breeze. The people stare on hoping for something more then a simple flesh parade.
These people have such small minds. “No problem.” As he erects himself, stiffening his knees then looks at the two then the others. He lets Ben’s weight carry him as he attempts to capture the image of his surrounding. The world is now clouded somehow as the sick pains him with the bile growing in his throat. With a bit of distance, “I’m going to be sick.” Swallowing the substance of forever and yet nothing, only emptiness at the pit of his soul. This was beyond sickness, pain, and despair. This was a weight that crushes him, sweeping him with pure fear and utter desolation. There are no words to describe this as the substance of his life spew forth from loose lips and buckled shoulders. He closes his eyes so not to see the substance purge from him and blanket the ground. His nostrils burn with the putrid weight as he coils for another go. It feels as though the essence of his being is attempting to flee, an exodus for salvation in the flow of his life stream. But it is only bile and liquid that flows from him as he continues to purge.
Ben’s hand weighs down onto him, holding his back adding support where absence rests before. However, James finds this support hollow for he attempts to piece the origins of his fears and the nature of his illness. His eyes simply find the haze of his world, the throbbing of his mind and eyes as he stares into the black of closed lids.
“You’ll be okay.” Hollow words to usher comfort, but only bring despair.
From what? He wanted to ask. But in the end, it was all too futile. Benny simply couldn’t comprehend the scope of this.
“You okay?” His voice looms in the wake of the afterthought. The whole situation seemed marred in shadows, unattainable by the conscious mind. What was it all supposed to mean? And more importantly, how could you not see it coming?
“Yeah!” The word, the sound was caught in his breath. It sounded as though it leapt from his lungs and not his throat. “No!” Puzzlement, uncertainty, fear and lost were all more than insufficient to describe it. The inner James steps back to seek refuge from the sense of impending sorrow – guidance from something that simply could not, did not want to reveal it self. “What is it suppose to mean?” Wrestling against the ground and him self.
“What?” The weight of Benny’s hand burning James’s back, where his voice carried more suspicion than what he wanted to intone. But it was how he felt and that came out more than the intent to be more something he truly wasn’t – and concerned was only the tip of this.
“No! I’m not okay... I don’t understand how, or why…” and the rest he lets drift into the void.
Uneasiness passes between them with neither shedding a word to interrupt the sound of their steps. Ben allows the silence to persist until they reach his car. A distancing he began to regret a while once the left the building. But life has a way of carrying people in different directions. The allegory was like: sails under opposing winds, sends ships adrift away from each other - or something like that. The words came from his grandfather, an old sailor from the days of the war. Much of what he said still held logic, as convoluted and lost as they were. With no thanks to his stroke, madness seemed to carry the brunt of his reputation. But Benjamin knows different, that despite his crazed appearance and random mumblings, there are nuggets of wisdom. Ben simply needed to learn to listen.
James held a moment, simply taking a breath looking at the door handle where oblivion stemmed the expense between him and the machine. The locked door holds far more symbolism to him then it should, but it seemed without rhythm or rhyme where the simplicity within the distinctive logic confused him even more. What held him was more than a breath, but an overwhelming sense of whimpering whispers that carried fewer words than emotions. Suddenly, the realization that what weighed down within his deepest essence was not a sense of lost words, or confused thoughts but unstable emotions that flowed from the inner recesses of what he could be and not what he is. The confusing cycle simply eats away at him from within as he passes over the image veiled more in emotion then drowns him. The pain boiled in his throat like solid offerings, then the spill out and fall down along the length of Tim’s car door. The viscous fluid, more like battery acid than alcohol fueled vomit simply erupted into a detonation and ricochet off his teeth. The sensation was more like breathing out fire than a purging. He hadn’t had much to drink but that wasn’t what fueled this. It stemmed from a deeper, darker reality that something beyond his control will happen and he is powerless to stop it - That, once it is said and done, he will be changed and he only had the old man to blame. But as he looked, he could find no blame, only more confusion. The future is only emotions and he will quickly become more than a simple thread in that reality.
“Oh! Christ man…” taking aback from the stench, Benny hurries to his friend’s side. Despite the ire and near total disgust, he is driven to aid his ailing comrade and help him find solace. In a small degree he felt guilty for this. James didn’t really want to leave the safe confines of his home tonight and it was only at his insistent urging that he agreed to leave. But he never realized that James had zero alcohol tolerance and couldn’t hold a drink down. At least down long enough to not puke all over his stepfather’s car. He can almost see the paint peel under the super glue like vomit as he bends over and picks James up in a potato sack carry. “You okay? Really man…” as he helps him down onto the curb – “Couldn’t you at least… Had puked before we reached Tim’s car?” He tries to veil his ire, but it is the realization that he lacks the coin needed to clean up the evidence to avoid an explanation. Now a confrontation is unavoidable and he was looking forward to some decent sleep before his match tomorrow. He apprizes his role at James’s neck, gently squeezing the sinews of his tense neck muscles to elicit ease and relaxation. It is as though James has forgotten to breath, or simply gone beyond the need for air. “Come on man… take a deep breath – relax. Just take it in.” He urges, feeling as though his words fell upon deaf ears. “It’s okay, everything’s okay…” Shifting from massaging the neck to patting his back to help him breath easier.
“It’s okay…” James offers, only after a few minutes of darkness. The liberation he remembered, along with the pain of bitter disappointment and venomous acceptance. But from that point to now, a blurry haze, with Ben’s increasing grip on his neck cumulating to a crushing squeeze. He tries to pull away from his clawed fingers as they dig into the muscles and elicit more pain than ease. “I’m okay I said… you can let go.”
“All right… Don’t have to bite my head off…” As he releases the neck and pushes away along the concrete curb, his nose and mouth seeking fresh air to inhale. “What’s your problem?”
“Which do you want? The answer you want to hear or the one that will only confuse you?” The taste of his offering burns in the after-wash of his saliva, to where his tongue can no longer taste the air.
“So… Now it’s about me being stupid?”
“No… that’s not it… There’s a difference between what you know and what you should know. That you will only understand what you will allow yourself to understand and that I… No one can tell you otherwise.”
“So, you think I’m stupid?” Holding his pose, looking into the distance in James’s eyes. Ben’s eyes begin to glaze with his overwhelming emotions – hurt and betrayal mixed in confusion and condemnation.
“I think… I think you are the best friend a man could ever have and I am grateful that we have had this time in life to know each other.” Ben’s thoughts are as legible as the black letters of the morning newspaper, but the words come from James’s heart and not to save face. There is so much he needed to talk about, to say and too few to say them to.
“Whatever…” Pushing himself up and away, his feet moving away slightly out of synchrony of his body. But the wobbling soon persists as he rounds around the front of the car, toward the driver’s door.
“Just like I said, what you want to hear and know… I can’t talk to you.” Self-deprecation now drowns him as he watches his friend close up, shut in. Suddenly James feels a flicker yet not quite forgiveness, bordering more on a thought.
“You know? You’re a lousy drunk – and a bitter one too…” The key in his hand searches for the keyhole, nearly scratching the paint as it skimmers around.
James fights against gravity as he ascends to greet a whirlwind of turbulence in his head. The rush shifts the center of gravity from his mid section to the top of his head as he doubles over and forces his feet before him to simply keep his balance. The immerging thunder rush of blood to his brain nearly cripples him as his vision falls to the haze of gray lights that radiate from within. The daze ushers a searing pain between the inner surfaces of his skull to the outer surface of his frontal temporal lobe. The migraine strikes with a decisive blow of a Mack Truck to a watermelon. His left hand finds stability from the rear wing of the Ben’s car, but the pain quickly migrates down through his whole right side toward his upper right knee. It takes every fiber of his concentration to remember how to breath as the fire in his lungs screams for recognition.
“Jesus man… what is going on with you?” Benny screams from his door, nearing a semi crouch as though to take the driver’s seat. But he quickly exits the car and charges around the back of the car to offer support as needed.
“Too much…” James muddles as he doubles over, the pain flaring in his head. A thick, creamy stream of saliva overflows from his lips, dribbling outward like milky threads gleaning under the moon.
“That’s it… I’m taking you to the hospital man. This isn’t right.”
James begins to cough as the thick saliva threatens to choke him. The more he coughs, the more viscous the saliva he spits out, which does little to subside the throbbing rage in his head. “No…” He coughs, throwing out a disparaging hand to abate Ben’s approach. Once the final leg of his choking subsided in the base of his throat and the residue of streaming, viscous saliva has balled up into a single, spit-able wad for him to launch; he slowly makes his way away from the car and toward the grassy knoll. The onus is in the sitting as the throbbing fire in his brain quickly ignites as he taxes his physical limits. “Let me rest for a few minutes.” As he hits the cold ground.
“Okay… Then what? I let you puke your lungs out until you pass out… Then drag your unconscious body to the hospital?” Approaching from around the back of the car and placing himself between James and the piercing streetlight overhead. His shadow casts a near eerie blanket of duty black over the features of James’s face. However, the veil offers a welcome interlude from the crushing brilliance of the light.
“It’s not what you think…”
“And what is it then?”
“I really can’t say, I don’t know.”
“Typical…”
“Give me a few minutes then we’ll take a walk. The fresh air will do us good.”
“Okay, but I still have to wash the car before I take it home.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll help take care of it.”
