Sliding my fingers through my hair reminds me of the way the wine slips down my throat. Slippery. Very slippery. I do not want to think that my fingers are sliding because my hair is a greasy mess, but it is. It falls onto my face, and then I get a whiff of it, or I feel it more than I want to. It's simply another distraction. Something else driving me mad in its attempts to take my mind off my writing. I've already disposed of my television, and my ancient radio is on its last legs. I'm waiting for the static to move in permanently and command the broadcast waves so that the next time I am tempted to turn that thing on, all I'm going to hear is white noise, the static of my life that not even I would want to listen to. Forget it. I can not be bothered by the likes of modern mass communications sucking the essence of life through my brain and clogging my nostrils so that I can barely breathe. Damn, I joke with myself, who was the fucking idiot who bought this cheap bottle of red wine? What fool wouldn't have the sense to notice that this particular bottle is nothing but red vinegar trapped in a bottle created to contain wine! I am so angry. But I can not throw the shit away. If I did that, then I wouldn't have anything to drink and worse, nothing to help advance the growing anger in my dilapidated brain that somehow continues to punch the keys on my lousy typewriter. I could have at least broken down my rules for once and bought a goddamn electric typewriter. But no. I'd rather not do anything like that. I'd rather punish myself as frequently and as abusively as I possibly can. And with that comes the knowledge that this brand new story I have been working on for the past two weeks is gonna be another throwaway! And I have invested myself in this story. I have gone to the library and read several self-help books on the wonders of being good to one's self and now I can see plainly that there is not a drop of 'good' in this character. He's the next thing to a scum bag. He only arrives late or never even appears for whatever social function he might be involved with, and if he does, he invents lies and excuses that are obvious to the people he was supposed to interact with. Then, once he sees that nobody is buying his line, he will begin to roar a string of obscenities at them and storm out of the room, slamming the door, shattering the glass in the door. And, yes, I have the power to insist that there is a huge panel of glass in every door that Mr. Madman slams as he makes his hasty, obscenity-filled exit.
Suddenly I push my ass to the very back of my chair and attempt to straighten out this horrible back of mine. As I moan and grab my glass of red vinegar, I see that the page of crisp white paper in my typewriter carriage is blank. My fingers have not been punching any keys at all. I see all I have been punching is myself in the head with all these random throwaway thoughts, and that I am probably my own greatest distraction. Goddamn it, where is the television?! I could watch a ball game and get this much work finished. Shit. I realize I have to take a breath. My vision seems to be clouding over, and I can barely feel my heart beating. I must be slipping into a coma. If I do that, then who will be able to dial 911? My strength will have leaked onto the floor like a puddle of this ghastly so-called red wine. I pour the remaining few ounces of it onto the floor. Next, with whatever strength remaining, I pull myself out of my chair. My foot will, without a doubt, step immediately into the puddle of horrid grape juice, causing my head to smash on the floor. Then a trickle of blood will race down from my lips to my chin, only to eventually mingle with the fucking cheap wine, which, if I ever recover consciousness, will lap up like the thirsty dog I am.
I stop. I look down and see there is actually a small stack of papers by my trusty typewriter. I look again and see that indeed there are words and punctuation typed all over those few pages, and that with another glance, I can determine that there is a logic built into the way the words are strung together. I almost allow myself to smile, but I keep those muscles in check because the 'story', if one can call it that, is still in its infancy. The gestation period is not truly at an end. More birthing is necessary, and growth. I stop and am pleased for once that I chose an almost undrinkable bottle of wine. I put that detestable liquid next to the drainboard in the kitchen and find I do have more wine. I must have been crazy thinking I had run out. This time I chose a Chardonnay. No more red for today. I keep my wine on the windowsill in the kitchen.. It's not really a kitchen. It does pretend to be one, what with the gas-burning stove and the refrigerator standing buddy, buddy next to each other, but that kind of friendship is flimsy at best. They have no true connection, and they know it. Hot and cold is how it is with them, and there is nothing that anyone can do about it. It's a joke. One smiles and the other frowns, and vice versa. My kitchen window lives in constant seclusion because the blinds must be eternally drawn. The reason is the neighbors across the way. Those miserable bastards never close their curtains, shades, or whatever. I hate them. One day, I am going to stand there naked with a pile of rocks by my side while I raise my blinds and throw the rocks like a machine gun across and through their window, smashing the glass into millions of tiny shards that are impossible to ever completely clean up. They will forever be running to the bathroom, screaming for the tweezers so they can attempt, but hopefully not successfully, pull the razor-sharp splinters from the bottom of their tender barking dogs. Oh boy. This is when I would totally allow myself to let my facial muscles soar into uncharted waters. Letting the laughter ooze out of me like hot magma exploding from a too-long extinct volcano, and just when one might suppose the flow had begun to quiet, it would begin all over again with a new ferocity. A fresh energy would spit and gurgle and soar into convulsions. Okay, convulsions, then my body would writhe on the floor, and I would see the ever-present phony friends of the stove and fridge making me continue to laugh. And then the neighbors in pain would summon the police, but I wouldn’t open my door. I wouldn't be able to drag myself off the floor, and they would have to break the door down if they really wanted to subdue me, and if they did that, I would straighten myself up in a flash of a wink and inquire why they would want to invade my apartment. I was only sitting here at the typewriter, working on a story. I would calmly report. I'd offer them a cup of coffee. There wouldn't be any rock evidence in the kitchen because they would all be across the way in the neighbor's apartment. As for my window being broken, well, I live in a dump, the landlord is a corporation, and surely there must be other broken windows besides mine. I mean, after all, my neighbor's window is broken too.
Tim is a published author and singer/songwriter. Originally from Easton, Pa. But the real formative years were spent
in NYC. After a long run we loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly, Hills that is. Not true, but I like it. Actually the wilds of Arizona.
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