Letter to a friend

(Letter to my good friend @GoFrankGo)

Frankly (Mr. Shankly!),

Sorry I missed your call on Sunday.  It’s been a rough weekend:

Friday night, I ate some takeout Chinese and washed it down with a Red Bull while watching “Venture Bros.”  As one does.  (Fuck, I have GOT to stop eating like I’m 20…) You’re right.  In fact, everyone who has ever recommended “Venture Bros.” to me was right about that show.

That night, I had dreams where I was dying of thirst even though I was drinking as much as physically possible – a sure sign that my body wasn’t happy with the choice I’d made.  (I have those dreams when I eat pepperoni or sausage on pizza, too.  Mmmm, sausage and mushrooms.… )  In these dreams, I’m drinking from the garden hose on full stream, or pounding gallon jugs of ice water straight from the fridge but nothing’s coming out.  Woke up the next morning and I was sore all over, like I was coming down with something.  Showered, went back to bed for a few hours.  Can’t nap too late, though…

Oddly enough, Katie Orlando was in town this weekend with her boyfriend to shoot the Cherry Blossom festival. My plan was to leave a few hours early to say hello (she being only the fourth TLC postboard persona I’d have met!), then head over to Dupont Circle to meet up with Cass (see also: Special Lady) for fancy salads, and then take in a Bach Concert at the Kennedy Center. Eventually: I got up, dragged on clean clothes (NOT feeling like doing any of the above now), packed my faithful bag, and headed for the bus stop.

Fucking tourists. Seems I can never get away from them. They swarmed me in Hilton Head, South Carolina; they clogged the streets of Juneau, Alaska; and now they fuck up my chi each Spring when the blossoms bloom in Disco Charlie.  They clog the Metro, make a mess of the escalators and generally get in the way.  As I get sicker, I grow… angrier.

Short story long, I missed out on seeing Katie but she lives in New York; no worries, we’ll have time to say hello later.  Waited for Cass for almost an hour before she shows up and tells me she was waiting at the other entrance to DuPont Circle – and, her new cellphone’s not working. Google phone can’t get a T-Mobile signal in D.C.?  Who’dve thought it?

We ate our fancy salads and relished every bit — no, wait.  I’m lying.  Because, oh yeah, the salads sucked.  Now, I’m a member of the clean plate club.  All the time.  That’s just how I roll.  And when I tell you my favorite fantasy is taking shelter in an empty hotel in the middle of hurricane season with nothing to do but write (and I’ve got the keys for the bar, the pool, and access to a generous supply of fresh fish, steamed veggies, fresh oranges and brown rice) well, you come to understand what sort of sick, salad-humping son of a bitch I really am.

So when I say I couldn’t finish this salad — well, let’s just not repeat that sentence.

Cass was still hungry (her salad sucked, too! A word to the wise: SweetGreen? SweetFail.  I mean… look at the menu! It’s vegetable PrØn!  How could they fuck it up!?)

…so we ducked into a Subway. She ate half a sub, stashed the rest in my bag. Offered me some, but at this point I couldn’t imagine ever eating again. (I had a feeling of perfect balance, and the following thought occured: “Never eat again!  Why not?  It’s like being a character in a Tom Robbins novel and deciding not to age anymore.”)

On to the Kennedy Center!

Wait!  Go back!  When Special Lady told me we were gonna catch a Bach mass for twenty bucks, I, in my present state of physical delusion, assumed that my attire of camouflage shorts, a clean polo shirt and my beat-to-shit hiking shoes were perfectly AOK for the occasion. What the hell do I know from the Kennedy Center? (What the hell do I know from a mass??) We show up, and of course everyone is wearing suits. Yeah, I looked like a painted turd.  But fuck it, we paid for our tickets so we took our seats.  I slumped down extra low to hide my poor fashion sense from Jesus.

Catholic masses… wait, aren’t those–?  Long as fuck?  Yes.

I experienced a specific mental meme,  a soundbite from a skit starring a Catholic priest who “really thought the world of a GOOD LONG MASS!” (*fist punched into palm for enthusiasm and emphasis*. Might be an old episode of ‘Father Ted’?)  Now, I own recordings by Vivaldi, Wagner, and Mozart, and my first favorite song ever was the Pachebel Canon in D Minor.  So I’m not a culture buffoon.  But this was about the most boring goddamn thing I’d ever seen!  No plot, just grovelling. “Oh, Lord, please forgive us!  We’re not worthy!  Just you!  Only you are worthy!  You’re number one!  We’re number two!  Please let us into your special club!”

Just then, Special Lady (dressed in suitable jeans, top and a shawl — making me look even shittier, thanks) writes on her program and slides it over: WHY ARE THEY SINGING ABOUT CHEESE AND RICE?  I try not to laugh, makes my head hurt, can’t help it.  She’s wearing a mischievous grin, her bright eyes sparkling. I’m feeling like smeared death… sore limbs, and a raging headache, and the chairs are built for tiny beings, not 6′ 4″ motherfuckers like myself.  So we start passing notes back and forth. Hilarity ensues.  We are comedic geniuses the likes of which the world has never seen.

Then she writes: IF THERE’S AN INTERMISSION, LET’S BAIL. I slide her a low-five… aw, yeah. Dig this girl…

We slip out, she finished her sandwich and we discuss an important new opera called “The Cheese and The Rice” on the way to the Metro.  She performs a few scenes for me, in falsetto, at the top of her lungs.  More tourists.  Back to her place, finally.  I’m sore, shivering, and I’ve got a headache strong enough to make a horse squint. I crawl under the covers and I’m out…

Next morning, her godawful rooster alarm wakes me up at zero-dark. She has to go to work, but tells me I can sleep in late, shower, and catch a cab to the Metro.  No worries. I’ll make up the bed.

Conversation courtesy of Jesus of Bastardeth

Back to sleep, in and out of dreams. Head throbbing. (At one point, you texted me. Or maybe it was Jesus trying to sneak in a little self-promotion. You can’t blame the man, everybody has bills to pay.) Back to sleep, more dreams.

Wake up weak with a squinteriffic headache. It’s almost 3 p.m. Shower, dress, and lock up. Check iPhone app for local cab companies while standing in the driveway. Seven numbers appear, three of which are limo service and airport shuttles. Read: expensive. Two numbers don’t even answer. The last picks up: “Yeah? Naw, we don’t pick up there no more. You gotta call someone else.”  He gives me a number, hangs up.  In my feverish, fucked up condition I hope I’ve got it right.  Dialed it.  A Hindu voice answers.  “We don’t pick up there.  You gotta call someone else.”  I dialed the third number.  The sun is beating down, I’m shivering, and my head is SCREAMING.  Cars are whipping past carrying bored expressions and bad sunglasses.  Seems folks’re already sick of sunlight around here.  The last number is a winner.  They’ll be here in ten, and they take plastic.

Get to the Metro station. There’s a guy with a dazed look on his face, standing with his face pressed against the chain link fence, headphones in, his toneless voice rapping along: “Tryin’ ta get her pregnant, tryin’ to get her pregnant…” His eyes are dark and dead.  I’m shredding my taxi receipt into tiny pieces because it has my card number on it, and I throw it into a trashcan that reeks of piss. Everyone looks mean, cheap, like someone pissed in their Cheerios a long time ago and they’ve just kept eating it. I’m still not a fan of the ghetto, I don’t care how much we stand to learn from its residents.

Remember those tourists?  And remember that part about Chinese food and Red Bull being the last thing I’ve eaten all weekend?  I almost lost my temper and starting shouting at some tourists who were wide-eyed as amazed deer that the doors on a Metro car don’t bounce open when they encounter your arm or leg.  “Goodness!”  But I bite my tongue, ever polite.  Off the train now, walking faster and faster, dodging and moving through gaps in the crowd. Muttering, swearing.  Moments from losing it.  Don’t wanna be in a crowd if I do.  Through the Metro, up the escalator (“The RIGHT side is for standing, people!”) and get to the top, spot a cab.  Give the intersection of my neighborly hood, and asked if he took plastic.  He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know how to work the machine..?”  Try another cab.  He is apparently certified to work the machine.  I pile in.  The cab is clean, and smells of incense. “Nice weather, yes?”  I agree wordlessly, staring out the window, thinking thunderclouds.

I get home, check the mail, unpack, toss my dirty clothes in the laundry basket, gun a handful of ibuprofen and some other stuff Cass had given me before diving under the covers, trying to wish away the intense brain pain.  Sleep, and more weird dreams…

In this one, I wake up in my first-ever bedroom, which was haunted.  I know there are visitors downstairs, and I’m supposed to go see them.  But I have to get dressed.  I can’t turn on any of the light switches (sure sign that I’m dreaming) so I use my cellphone camera for light.  As one does.  I put on a black shirt, black slacks and black dress shoes.  I look like I’m ready for Vegas.  Or a Miami funeral.  I go downstairs and suddenly I’m in a cab.  And we’re driving  - have been driving for quite some time, actually. Eventually, I speak to the driver.  “Say, man. We’ve been at this for awhile, and, like, I don’t remember telling you where I wanted to go..? So how’s about we go a little further for scenery’s sake, and then you drop me off at where ever it was that you picked me up?”

Suddenly, I’m walking under a clear night sky.  The weather is perfect.  The stars are bright and plentiful, like when you’re out at sea, or in a country with minimal light pollution.  I’m aware that I’m walking ahead of a great multitude of people, and they’re waiting for me to do something, but it’s dark and I can’t see them.  The stars are huge and perfect…

Woke up at midnight. Headache and soreness gone. Wrote this letter to pass the time, which may explain the typos.

That’s why I missed your call.

TWM

I told her my name was Tom Machine.

What follows are notes taken during my brief employ as a furniture mover. I didn’t edit these, so my writing is probably a little stunted. (Incidentally, we prefer the term “relocation specialist” – it makes us feel smarter than we really are.)

17JUN99 — At the sound of the tone, it will be 1020 AM. We’re jolting along in a cab-over truck few miles outside of Toledo, Ohio. Riding in the dog box is uncomfortable. There’s no padding under this thin, stained mattress and I’m propped up one on elbow reading the paper, perusing reviews of ‘Hannibal’, the sequel to ‘Silence of the Lambs’. Looks pretty good. The movie based on ‘Red Dragon’ failed to please. Michael Mann had too many fingers in the pie, and the powerful tale of a compelling, complex character came across as just another episode of Miami Vice.

We’re headed to pick up some guy at a site just outside of Detroit to help with the load. I hope he feels like working. Sometimes they show up, cart a few boxes, take off on break and don’t come back.

Getting paid 42 bones a day for expenses,

TWM

17JUN99 — 1910. Finished off-loading 15,000 pounds of household goods for a nervous young couple in Detroit. He sells cars and laughs on cue. She’s got a nervous housewife grin on her face, like she’s waiting for the flash of the bulb or a slap on the nose from a rolled-up newspaper. Reminds me of a Mexican hairless. They were a skittish pair.

I catch myself feeling jealous when I move people, measuring myself against their position and possessions. Yeah, I‘ve done a lot in my time, and I’ve been a lot of places, but I have so little to show for it. I don’t exactly keep proof of high adventure in my wallet. I try to remind myself that I want very little anyway, but it’s OK to want, isn’t it? I used to live for cash-and-carry, but I can’t go on like this forever. When doubt seeps in like water through the bottom of the boat, I find it difficult to rise past that sinking feeling.

This couple had so much shit they didn’t know what to do with it! Gadgets of every make, shape and model; six fucking bags full of gear for different sports. But by the look of them, they and the gear have ever been formally introduced. The equipment was brand-new, covered in dust, and you could tell they’d eaten all the pies.

At the end of the day, when I’d finished humping their worldly possessions up two flights of stairs, I began pulling up the tape and folding tarps while the driver filled out the paperwork. As we walked out, they were sitting in the middle of a tiny room crowded floor to ceiling with furniture and boxes. It was in their eyes, that ‘Oh, Christ’ feeling of being totally overwhelmed. Being the last man out, I paused: “That which you posses also possesses you.” Then I closed the door. I guess that was a crappy thing to do. I couldn’t help it, I was feeling smug.

I suppose I’d just settle for being out of debt, having some sort of health insurance, a nice place to live, a full refrigerator. I’m afraid of starving, of not paying my bills.

I’ll stop here. It’s a pain in the ass trying to write while lying on my stomach in the back of a truck, when the driver seems intent upon hitting every pothole.

TWM

19JUN99 — 0840 AM, Saturday morning. I got up this morning and headed into work, but no one had any runs going out. I hitched a ride home with a distant relative who also works here. Hadn’t seen him in awhile, to the point that I’d forgotten who he was. Also in the car, my not-so-distant-cousin Michael. I haven’t seen him in years, either. Strange to talk of the old days, dissecting the mayhem of our youth.

Now on the front porch, a ringside seat to the Arena Suburbia. I have my keys but I like the idea of just sitting out here, watching my fellow Earthlings stretch wide their arms to the sunlight, taking in the day like a newborn’s first breath, not a care in the world. It’s a cool morning, so I dig an old windbreaker out of my bag and shrug it on. Maybe I’ll walk down to Stauf’s at the top of the block and see what’s going on there.

I could call A., or J., who is in town drying out, trying to shake the monkey off her back. I keep making small promises to see them when I can, passed through the grapevine of mutual friends. Like I really know when that’s gonna be. Things have changed, circumstances being what they are.

I filled out a job application yesterday at OSU for a position as a lab technician. Wonder if I’ll ever hear back from them. I doubt it. I lack the right kind of paper. Man, I’m so anxious to get my head out of my ass and get on with my life… I keep stopping and starting, red light, green light.

I guess I should start with today. See ya.

TWM

21JUN99 — The word of the day is ‘apt’. Short for apartment, I passed it no less than one hundred times traveling up and down a flight up steps while carrying what must have been half the Library of Congress out of the basement of a home in the middle of East Moses. It was a bright orange tag, meaning the box it had fallen from was destined for the apartment the couple was moving to, and not the storage facility.

Apt. I kept saying it over and over, trying to use it in a different sentence each time I passed it, like a game. Something to keep my mind off the weight of the boxes.

Yesterday’s word was ‘tomorrow’. It was stuck on the back of a chair, written on a big bright bold sticker like the future itself. I sat down in that chair during my break, hoping it would take me there.

I’m getting paid nine bucks an hour to sweat like a motherfucker. I’m dirty, and the tips of my fingers are dried out, rough, and chewed to holy hell. I’m not long for this job, really. I like being outside, but I despise being subservient to everyone; bowing my head and acting like a dumb fuck, a piece of white trash just good enough to carry your furniture and household goods. I’d rather have something I can get my brain into, and give my back a break. Want in one hand, shit in the other.

Tack the hide of this monster on the wall of ‘Lost Causes’ with your sharpest knife, and ask me if I’m a tree.

TWM

21JUN99 — Later that evening, took my bike for a spin toward campus. Rode towards the OSU employment office, still hoping for a better job and a lucky break. It felt really weird to be on that campus again, my old battlefield. I rode slowly, with no particular direction. I looked at the buildings and the streets I used to know like the back of my hand. It was almost three years ago that I just got fed up with my declining progress, my failing grades, and my apparent lack of ability to do anything more than fuck off, get high, and write about myself.

I’d taken 050—Basic Algebra three semesters in a row, failing like a champion in every sense of the word. The real slap in the face came from watching the rich troglodytes that I made fun of pass the course without breaking a sweat. They’d never seen the sunrise over 5th century ruins, never made love to a woman in an ancient graveyard, never played stickball with explosive detonators in the hot Sicilian sun, or swam in the salty lap of the Mediterranean but they sure as hell knew how to pass basic Algebra. I couldn’t take another class without first passing 050, and I couldn’t take the 050 a fourth time. Checkmate, asshole. Pity, because I’d planned to take basic astronomy next quarter. So I stood up during the middle of the class after failing yet another quiz, quietly packed my bags, and left the campus. Never went back. I folded like a card table, and it eats at me to this day.

And here I am now, sprawled out on my favorite slab of concrete in the Oval where I used to eat my brown rice and nap with my headphones on, waiting for my afternoon classes to begin. I ate nothing but $1.00 rice from Mark Pi’s, and drank all the free caffeine I could stand from my job at a local coffee house. My biggest concern was having enough money to drink on that night. Now I’ve got mouths to feed, and the biggest responsibility of my life still on the way.

You can never come home again. You have to call it something else.

TWM

22JUN99 — High noon. I’m in a warehouse in B.F.E. We just finished building nine 5 X 6 shipping crates, and now we’re waiting for the phone to ring. White guys in thin ties and mullets sit in the office drinking Diet Pepsi, and tell these poor old black men what to do, and when to jump. I had a can of Mountain Dew for lunch, and now I’m picking splinters out of my hands. Being a peon at this job rubs salt deep into my veins, pressing me further and further into humility. Maybe I need this. Maybe I’m not such hot shit after all. Maybe this will help me to make something of myself in this life. I’m capable of a lot more than this. I’m certain of it.

It’s like the man said: “I can’t be a rock star, so I’ll just have to go out and be awesome.”

TWM

22JUN99 — Finished another long day. Built those nine crates on an empty stomach, and got a ride back to the main warehouse in co-worker’s filthy mini-van with filth smeared windows, up to my ankles in — I shit you not — dirty diapers, soiled clothing and toys. The windows wouldn’t open and I was suffocating in the lukewarm fumes of human waste. Got back to the freight yard and cleaned out a trailer full of old furniture pads, assorted debris and empty boxes. It was a haphazard mess.

The task itself wasn’t that important, I just really wanted to use the word ‘haphazard’ in a sentence. I’ve been itching to do it all day. See? I’m still smart! At one point, I could hear the faint stains of a favorite song drift into the trailer from the stale echoes of the warehouse, and it spurred me to work a little harder.

I’m exhausted. I’ve got a raging sun-squint fucker of a headache, a sore back, and I’m wearing a cloak made of sweat.

Iron Maiden saved my life,

TWM

23JUN99 – Had a strange dream this morning. My cousin Michael and I stole a white Rolls Royce. At least I have taste in my dreams, yes? Anyway, we ditched it in a parking garage, and I wiped the car for prints. What a low-down dirty feeling that was…

The two other people in the car with us were Phil, Michael’s burned out stoner buddy and the first person I ever knew with epilepsy, and Quinn (not his real name), the family disgrace. A piece of trash so low that, rumor has it, he fucked his own grandmother for a cheap gold bracelet. This is the same kid who stole the car I got busted in a few years back. Don’t ask me why he was in my dream.

They were at the top of the ramp and I was a few paces behind. Suddenly, the cops came out of nowhere, cutting off our exit. Michael and I bolted back down the ramp, leaving those guys as bait. We ran until we thought it was safe.

At this point I was almost naked, wearing only a dark-blue parka around my waist like a diaper. We were starving, so we stole a set of antique dishes and hatched a plan. One of them dropped in the middle of the street and exploded everywhere. We decided to sign the rest of them, hoping to pass them off as collector’s items and turn a profit. The lady at the pawn shop asked me my name, politely ignoring the fact that I was now buck-ass naked, having lost my parka somewhere. I told her my name was Tom Machine.

Then I woke up, and took a shower. When I finally turned the water off, the air raid siren of noon was wailing.

Welcome to Wednesday,

TWM