The following is an internal communication leaked moments ago that I thought was worthy of sharing. Our writing traveler and international man of mystery, Oscar Bjorne has been sharing his thoughts on New York with Dylan Cormack, our own political correspondent around the globe. Dylan’s current place of residence is a secret he shares with few but from this document it stands to reason that he has his eye on Manhattan. We’ll update you as more details become known.
–
Dylan,
More trouble brews on the horizon, comrade. Things stir and I follow. You know how it is.
2008 is already proving to be what I expected it would be: a setup. This year will either give me much insight into what’s to come, or else it will be the step into whatever direction my life goes from here… what it will NOT be is indecisive.
In response to some plans of yours that I remember discussing a few weeks ago, I want to make sure you know what you’re getting into if you’re serious about this madness of moving to New York City.
The city, as you know, is dark and full of thieves and scum. You thought, my man, that SF was bad, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. The vagrants in SF are junkies, filthy and unbathed hippies in a coffee-soaked town that left them behind in the housing market of the late seventies. Degenerates of New York are another breed - they are the vermin of shadows; they are doctorate students addicted to vodka and spritzers. Many are aspiring musicians and bartenders that dress in designer shirts by night and American Eagle by day. The dangers are many and the problems extend from battery park until the very tips of Harlem, and right through such things as the natural history museum in the middle latitudes of central park. Nothing is what it seems here, and you should keep your hands in your pockets at all times, fists curled in a death grip that could choke a camel. Do not be fooled by what the people will refer to as “the energy.” I don’t suspect you would, but it can’t hurt to warn you just the same.
Under no circumstances should you (of all people) look down the street in search of a horizon. The infinity point where the two parallel lines of buildings and skyscrapers intersect is unblocked: there are literally buildings stretching to the end. Beyond that, who knows? Perhaps they continue. But what is certain is that no matter what direction you turn to there are more people; there are more buildings, more concrete, more villainy and more confusion. Who needs it?
If you followed through with the plan we discussed you would quickly join the ranks of the productive folk of the city; this is true. Never forget, though, that in doing so you will be inextricably surrounded by freaks, pill-hungry stockbrokers and out-of-work journalists. You will not find a decent cup of coffee anywhere; I suspect because it all comes from the same machine. What you will find a lot of is curry. I hope you like curry.
Laughter will be evasive and curt. You will likely not find it at all, so don’t bother. Be content if you’re able to curtail the cursing to a minimum of 2 hours a day and if you have a moment or two of silence and solitude to write at any time. Avoid any place that has more than 5 people within a radius of 20 feet and for the love of god, stay away from the public libraries. If you see crazy-looking people (or anyone, for that matter) putting pigeons inside their socks or other articles of clothing, do not show alarm; simply turn around and walk the other way with a quick stride. Remember the fist thing I told you about in this letter.
Objectively, I’m writing you this letter because my thoughts need coherency and this helps. Also, there is a large project that needs doing and what better way to not do it than to do something else, right?
Right. And you know of these projects, or at least one about one of them, the many things we have brewing with our mutual good company from New Year’s in Portland, but looming in the file just next to this one is a story that needs my attention; naturally, I’m ignoring it completely. I seem to do that whenever something or someone worth my thoughts is at hand, and maybe that’s why I am where I am today. Step up to the corner and look down, seeing the cars below. I am not just drunk, I’m mostly tired. But I am not impaired; I am lucid. I convince myself to stay grounded only enough to put pencil to paper and give this round another whirl. Without this option it occurs to me that raising sheep in New Zealand is not so bleak an outcome, even if it is not likely a fate for this life. Perhaps we’ll come to that yet.
And so much for that, at least for now. I think you know what I’m saying, so I’ll leave you with that one. I’m too tire to stay awake, too angry to go to sleep, and to indifferent to care, at this point. Let’s let gravity decide for now. While it does, I have stories to write.
Surreptitiously,
-Osc.r
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Jesus, what a weird night. Things have been hazy in the past couple of days, the return home dropping itself fully on top of me like a large bag of oranges or some other citrus. At first I thought it was jet lag that was keeping me awake through all hours of the night, forcing me to go to bed at 2 or 3 and waking up alert as all hell at 5, knowing that what you need is a 5k run.
Yeah, that’ll do it. What kind of bipolar maniac would think that’s ok? And then be so schizophrenic to wonder why you’re tired as hell come 10 in the morning and again at dusk. 3 days later the pattern continues.
Then someone sent me an article about a drug they’re trying on these monkeys, something that doesn’t just postpone sleep, it replaces it entirely. Fuck, I thought. That’s an elegant solution to my jet lag problem. I could USE some of that.
Then I thought about how the last thing this world needs is another sleep deprived, over-evolved chimp - least of all one who writes in that state. No, we don’t need that.
Now, late into the night, the bottle of Jameson almost gone and the two blunts my flatmate left me still sitting on the table for a lack of a lighter or anything resembling heat in this ancient building, I’m forced into all kinds of complicated things like answering emails about the apartment I’m trying to rent. What hope did I think I had? Craigslist wasn’t made for ads like this:
Death of an Era: 2 rooms available to share postcard apartment with occasionally drunk migrant
That doesn’t work, Pete. You’re only going to attract more degenerates with that kind of talk. Leave it off the papers, man. Get a grip. Sit down. Think. Maintain.
Or maybe just get some sleep.
But how? Later, one of the Katies, due to leave in less than a week’s time says there’s a film I must watch. It’s an oldie, and it’s scary, she says.
Ok. Maybe I’ll get some sleep. Good. Put it on.
“Don’t Look Now”, with Donald Sutherland and Julie something is, for the record of fact, a horribly confounding, twisted and in all other ways terrible movie. Its strangely placed camera angles and scene transitions do enough to trip you out throughout the whole movie, and at one point you start to think that none of it is an accident and that some brilliant art students must be behind all this razzle and dazzle that you haven’t quite understood yet. “I’m sure it’ll all tie together before the end,” you tell yourself.
Wrong.
Imagine that after all the confusion of the 6th Sense it turns out that instead of being a ghost himself, Bruce Willis is actually a Trafalmadorian spy sent to gather toy soldiers from autistic boys. What if THAT were the twist? Would you be pissed off that all the imagery and symbolism had gone to waste. Would you be confounded at WHY any art student would do a thing like that? Would you wonder what sociopath funded a movie of that sort?
Well, now you know how I feel. Sort of.
Because I sat patiently and confused through seemingly pointless scenes that halfway assured me they would make sense later, some creepy shots of blind old ladies and a half hour of a far-too-intimate sex scene showing Donald Sutherland’s hairy white ass. That is NOT a part of well-balanced breakfast.
And for what? The red-coated midget has NOTHING to do with his dead daughter? The murdering old lady dwarf dressed like a European little-red-riding hood and packing a meat cleaver has absolutely NOTHING to do with ANY imagery of the film? Her only purpose is to suddenly turn a drama flick into a horror movie with a single hack of his jugular? What?
Naturally, you’d have to watch the flick to know what I’m talking about in its entirety, but trust me: not worth the time. If you want to waste your time without being pissed off, just watch Transformers with the sound turned off. At least that way you won’t have to put up with Shia LaBeouf’s unwarranted antics and you can enjoy Megan Fox without the winging.
–
I am understandably upset. I imagine the scene in the meeting room where the art students that made this contortion of images at the moment when things go astray.
Lead art student: Ok people, they’ve cut our due date by a few days, so we’re going to have to wrap it up. No more scene additions.
Gabe: But I had this great idea for this symbol around the red candle that would…
LAS: Sorry, Gabe, we don’t have time for it.
Gabe: Fuck.
LAS: Ok, now we need to finish that scene in the dark and fog smitten building, right? Ok. So the midget in the red coat is standing, facing the corner, Donald approaches her, thinking it’s his daughter, the suspense is building, the music is climbing, she sniffles, he says “it’s ok, baby, I’m here,” he reaches out to touch her aaaaannnnnnndd…
[silence]
LAS: Mitch!
Mitch: yeah?
LAS: Wasn’t that your scene?
Mitch: Wasn’t MY scene!
LAS: Loni?
Loni: Don’t look at me, man… I did the weird scaffolding scene.
LAS: Joe?
Joe: Nope.
LAS: Really guys? Really? NObody knows what’s under that red coat? The entire movie has to be based on this. NObody?
…
well, do we at least have any ideas?
Joe: how about an old lady?
LAS: What old lady?
Joe: no, no, the red coat. There can be an old lady under there.
LAS: you mean like the spirit of the daughter aged a century in the afterlife?
Joe: I don’t know. Sure.
Mitch: Won’t work. We’ve been showing a child running through the streets of Venice.
Loni: It could be a midget old lady.
LAS: will you guys listen to yourselves? A midget old lady? Does she look like the blind woman? Or her sister, maybe?
Joe: No, no. Just some scary-looking, creepy old lady with dwarf face.
Mitch: Are you stoned? What the hell is dwarf face?
Joe: Are you drunk?
Mitch: Shut up.
LAS: Look, I’m not following this but let’s say ok, what then?
Loni: Meat cleaver.
LAS: What?
Loni: Meat cleaver. She turns around, looks at him randomly and while he’s trying to figure out who she is, she hacks his jugular with a meat cleaver.
LAS: Guys, c’mon! We’re artists. We’re better than this. Don’t we have any better ideas?
Joe: Well, Donald Sutherland could undress himself and…
LAS: Meat cleaver it is! Done.
–
Or something like that. Shit christ. What a terrible experience. Like that time Aaron told me the “Mr. Green” joke.
Ridiculous.
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At the moment I am on my 37th hour of perpetual consciousness following an all-nighter of every museum in Amsterdam and then a red-eye to Madrid. I am sitting at the tiny hotel desk scribbling this note frantically while outside the night is slowly turning to dawn. It’s 5:10 in the morning and decent people are not awake, which is why I am still writing and not running to save my life. A shit storm is about to blow the windows of this room.
I want to get this down fast because I don’t have a lot of time before I have to get out of here. It won’t take long to pack, since all I have on me are the clothes on my back a couple of notebooks, a novel I’ve already read and a violin case with a cheap Chinese fiddle inside. I don’t know why I’m bothering with the violin; it’s not like I play the damn thing. But it’s a perfectly good fiddle and it did cost someone about a hundred euros. My laptop broke down a couple days ago so I didn’t bother dragging it out to Madrid. They lost the rest of my luggage somewhere between Amsterdam and Munich so at least it’s their problem now. I won’t have to carry anything and will just have to figure out how to find it later. With any luck I can get them to ship it straight to me, though not at this hotel… not anymore.
What I could use right now is a little more time and some clarity - I need to think. But I can do that on my way out of here, I guess, which needs to be soon. I could also use a map of the city marking police stations and cheap hotels and perhaps some deodorant. All of these items are, by the way, in my lost bag which is in the capable hands of the Lufthansa ground staff at the Munich regional airport for some inexplicable reason.
The issue of the moment is that they’ve messed up my hotel reservations here and I’ll have to be leaving a day earlier than I’d planned, which is a hassle and and normally they would be forcing me out of the hotel this morning to make room for another paying guest. Normally I’d also get until 10 or 11 am before I had to leave; the typical check out time. But not now.
No, Christmas will come much sooner this year for the strong-armed Spanish bell boys of the NH hotel in Madrid. Those kids will have to do more than just carry luggage today. When they come to check me out of the hotel they’ll be wanting more than just my credit card and signature and if I’m still here I am not going to enjoy it.
God, it’s going to be messy: when they walk into the reception area today and see the bar reduced to shattered martini glasses and peanuts strewn with the shards all over the floor they’re going to have a suspect on their minds and that suspect is going to bear a very strong resemblance to the man in room 403.
I am that man.
There will be a lot of explanations requested and reimbursement required and I want no part in either. I’m a busy man and become very frustrated by having to explain why the bar is destroyed with peanuts on a Tuesday morning, especially this early. And that may be just the best-case scenario, the civilized scenario - and I’m not counting on it. This is, after all, Spain, a nation of hard-headed Catholics, Moorish-Visigoths who run with bulls and stomp on wood. They are people who see ripping the necks off of geese and using the sinewy toughness to slide down a foxline over a lake as a constructive way to pass the time on a Sunday. What they will do with me here, I can’t imagine.
–
I couldn’t sleep last night after 4 am. It happens often, especially in my line of work and it’s not altogether a healthy thing, but what the hell? I didn’t decide to be what they call a road warrior for the health of it. I had wandered downstairs, hoping to sneak into the breakfast buffet and get some carbohydrates in me while I read from Kurt Vonnegut’s Slapstick. When I found the place locked and not a soul in the reception to help, I sat at the bar in the hall between the breakfast buffet and the reception desk. The bar was relatively small, mirrored and had several shelves of glasses and only a few with bottles.
The peanut jar was open so without thinking, I grabbed a handful and lined them up on the bar. I started flicking them at the mirror for no reason other than that’s what seemed like the right thing to do to peanuts that are lined up. Like anxious foot soldiers they stood at attention on a bar at four in the morning. I would aim at the bottles that jumped out at me, the blue Bombay Sapphire, the green Tanqueray, the yellow label on the Cutty Sark, and whatever marketing splash Absolut recently dreamed up.
When I hit the first glass and knocked it off the shelf, it very naturally smashed on the floor into a thousand little pieces. I was certain it would have awoken half of the hotel or at least someone who would care enough to storm into that hallway to find out what animal had gotten into the bar and chase it away with a mop. I was sure they’d be shocked but I was also paranoid - as I said, I haven’t slept much in the last two days.
I didn’t hear loud and fast footsteps headed towards me right away with Spanish calls of “what the hell are you doing, you fiend?”, but I grabbed a bottle of Contreau just the same, reasoning that it would do some good damage with it’s hard angles and rectangular corners, should it come to that. I waited by the desk at the reception, crouched below eyesight and thought up all kinds of stories I could use before I had to get violent.
But nothing happened. Nobody had been disturbed by the shattering and I started thinking of pushing my luck. After a short time I went back and lined up a whole slew of them on the bar, my troops ready and willing. At first I flicked them indiscriminately, more out of anger and spite, content in my knowledge that I had time to flick the peanuts and surprised by my own impulse and unwavering hate, bent on lashing out at a hotel bar in a very dark part of the night. But then I started getting efficient, choosing more solid peanuts, kernels with both halves or else the ones with a slight curve underneath so that I could get my finger under it and provide enough lift to hit the top shelf.
Before long I had improved my aim down to bottle caps and just above the center of gravity of the martini glasses. I was mindlessly destroying the place. It only took about 10 minutes of fun to lay it all to waste. Not complete destruction, mind you, but certainly beyond cheap repair. I’m normally not a violent person but this morning I was pushed over some line for some reason; the feeling was genuine. It lacked a plan, a coherent line of thought, but not enjoyment. This was a truly twisted act that would cause someone a lot of work, a lot of grief, some debt and perhaps some anger, and the worst part about the whole affair is how much I liked it.
–
I think that I could explain where the desire for hopeless violence came from, especially given their attitude towards kicking me out when the mistake was theirs. I could rationalize it with the fact that I resented being kicked out of their hotel before I was good and ready to leave. But I couldn’t justify the destruction of their bar. That was an act of irresponsible malice that normally should have no business in a civilized society and anyone crazy enough to actually do such a thing should probably be locked up and guarded by rottweilers.
Wait. Whoops. Did I say that?
Well - in any case. It sure felt good.
But as I said, I don’t have a lot of time and soon some poor Peruvian woman will walk into the hotel to vacuum and dust and sweep before the actual staff arrives. Her usual routine will be torn when she sees the disaster this place is in and begins to fear the attackers are still on the premises, which I hope to God that I’m not. She will be filled with confusion, make the motion of the cross on her chest and mumble out a prayer of some kind. But with any luck she’ll snap out of it and start with the vacuuming, getting most of the peanuts, thereby erasing the evidence of my presence down to shards of glass, perhaps seen as a common break-in. They won’t discover that there’s nothing missing but the broken glasses for at least a couple of hours and by then I think I can be at another hotel across town where these guys will give up on me. Madrid is a very large place.
There an obvious lesson in this, but it applies more to them than to me. That lesson is to never leave the bar open with the peanuts out. I’m pretty sure it can be metaphorically applied to a great many situations.
Madrid, Spain — November 2007
Alberto Aguillera NH, Room 403
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The message came in much earlier, sometime around 22:00 last night but I was somewhere else, maybe watching LOST in Spanish or at a bar, or something. Yeah, that’s it - when her message came in I was at a bar in the casco viejo of Madrid.
The bar was all dark wood, carved by the hands of artists. And I don’t mean just the bar either, like, just a plank of hand-sculpted wood on which to serve drinks. No. The whole establishment was one large cave of mahogany or something. If you farted or your cell phone vibrated, I’m sure the whole place would feel it. I didn’t really realize it until my eyes got used to the dim lights and the Buena Vista Social Club started playing loud Cuban music out of the jukebox. The rusty metal signs were hand-made for sure, bent with pliers and cut with hack saws. Sangria and olive oil was kept consistently within arm’s reach of everybody, probably for good measure, and a smoked leg of ham stood propped on the bar on some home-made stand with its hoof out, like a dog ready to shake paws. It was almost carved to the bone but there were still another couple of hours worth of raw meat from that pork.
But the rafters of the place; they really did me in. I like old rafters the way older men like Buicks and Cadillacs and, in some cases, Volkswagens. The beam was supported by a strange thing indeed, a shape which both terrified me and captivated my eyes and my fantasies. My attention was ensnared and I couldn’t look away. It was, on closer inspection, a wooden sculpture of a sinewy human form, deathless for eons and sickly thin. Like a slave sailor on an old Spanish Galleon, it was positioned hunched over with its feet on the wall about 2 meters up, with the rafter over its shoulders, as if supporting the falling mast of a ship. If the wall had been the floor instead and the ceiling, the figure might have been sitting against a tree trunk with its knees bent, its arms grabbing the tree behind its head. Dark visions clouded my thoughts and it called into being all kinds of pictures of angel and images of vampires, pale mariners in the dark and the punished souls of demons. And in a place that full of sangria, it scared the ever-loving shit right out of me.
On the hand-painted walls, poor stucco jobs half-covered images of pistol-toting Mexican mermaids with conch shells covering their tits and dangling from their ears. The stucco was spattered, which had the effect of muffling the shouts of “cerveza” or “sangria: aqui.” On the walls where there weren’t images of flamenco-dancing beauties, lonely Guernikan nights, ancient masts for rafters or Bauhaus-twisted iron you saw things like rusting knights’ helmets, tastefully chosen warm Spanish colors and lots, and lots of vino.
…and I got mixed up in that Basque wine, half French, half Spanish with no identity to speak of and barely an identifiable language with which to associate. But I was under control, which is rare these days. I knew where I was, as I recognized that place from a few months earlier when I had spent a grand total of 16 hours in this city, 4 of which were spent on finding the hotel, 8 of which were spent on much needed sleep after careening around Europe for the last 2 weeks, 2 of them were spent in a movie, leaving another 2 to walk the streets of Madrid. And I recognized it immediately: Plaza Santa Ana. That was where we’d walked, had a Spanish tortilla, where it had all ended for them and started for me.
That’s also where, this time around, I decided that I was done with Madrid, at least for the time being. Having come to Madrid two weeks before, I’d already had my share of adventures and women and drink here. From the bar explosions to the distant clients, from the large city and its smog to the German Mädchen of fresh scents in the Tarifa adventure, I’d had too many fast times in that place. I needed rest.
So long, sucker - I have no more use for you. And all that.
It was off to the hotel in a fast cab, straight past the flirtatious reception girls that I would later take out on a few dates. But not tonight. Tonight was smack into my unfamiliar bed. FLOP! SLAM! Buenas noches.
–
Right. And here I am again, the sheets tossed around like an angry badger had it’s way with the place, and I’m no closer to sleep than Arnold is to the presidency. It worries me a little, by the way, that he’s even mentioned it, and a lot more that imbeciles talk about it like there was any fact or depth to that story at all. But that’s not what is troubling me tonight. No.
She had sent me a text message, a flirty kind of quick poke, a soft hello. An “I’m here, come and get me” scheme that rolled me out of bed and kept me there for far too long, reminiscing of kisses stolen on narrow streets in the dark, of windy lands far from here, of fast times since past.
It was Jana, the temptress from Tarifa, the sweet-smelling German girl who couldn’t stop saying my name in that weekend that I managed to escape from Madrid to Morocco. In her German accent, I would’ve been fine with hearing it until the sun came up. Now, in the silence of my hotel room, all I had of her was a little SMS icon blinking on my phone screen.
Granted, she was thinking of me, or at least that she had thought of me long enough to invest in some coordinated thumb-punching activities for a few minutes to let me know about it. That’s a sign kids; write it down.
And don’t get me wrong; I’m all for German babes with hot smiles and fast kisses thinking of me when I’m not around, and I was really into this chick. But she hadn’t responded to a message I’d left her 4 days earlier and I’d written her off as another great story and a memory that, while it would take longer to fade than others, would still fade nonetheless. Then that message went unanswered for 5 hours on a train ride through southwestern Spain. Then a day. Then 2. I’d been focused on obtuse clients and maddeningly bureaucratic business processes for the last two days -and now this
Where was the discipline? Where was the commitment to the dour principles of self-discovery, preservation and improvement? Where was the notion that I resent the very concept of girlfriends while my trek is underway? Where was the “Nooosssssssir, no anchors for me, thanks” - and all that?
Well. It almost went to pieces.
Yeah, I responded, and even proofread before I sent the thing. Yes, I sent an SMS back because the girl made me that jittery. I did almost lose my nerve and suggest that we meet up again since Germany isn’t all that far away from The Netherlands and I did have an episode of insomnia over the whole thing and yes, that’s why my sheets looked like a family of possums just had a lot of fun wrestling on my bed.
But I said “almost”. Did you forget who you’re dealing with here? I’m better now, and when I get done writing this, I’ll actually go to sleep, I think.
And why not? I loved it, babe, and you were special in those series of moments. That I was anything at all to you is sunshine on my heart; I never expected even that much. It was all for me at the time, and it was all I could get; there were no calculated risks, no saving anything for later. It was all out there - the way I roll. There was no pacing myself, giving some and taking a sustainable amount. What I saw was for the taking was pillaged and plundered, and I never looked back.
And don’t forget the rum, eh?
But I suspect that you too know something of fleeting moments. In that way we’re both folk of the road; we’ve both shared intimacy with others for extended, almost obscene amounts of time (in many senses of the word) and know that the term “one size fits all” never applied to us anyway. It’s not our bag, kid.
So I feel revived now. I’m glad this has all happened as it has and I think I’ll get a nap in before the next round of storms clears the horizon, or at least enough sleep to hold me off until my flight out of here tomorrow. But rest assured that “honey, I’m home” is far from anything I’ll ever say again without bursting into either gut-wrenching heaves, side-splitting laughter or desperate sobs of woe and fear of what I’ve allowed myself to become.
I’ve still got it.
Madrid, Spain — November, 2007
Alberto Aguilera NH, Room 403
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I snapped up in bed with a jolt as if hit by the titillating 20,000 Volts of a distributor cap. Disturbed from sleep out of a terrible dream is no proper way to make a man jump out of bed - but boy, is it effective.
The first thing I noticed was how dark it was. Not just dark, but black. Pitch black; not like the night, but like fear — like bad things face down in wet roadside ditches, cold and abandoned. Outside the lamps were still on but their lights seemed to be shut out from illuminating my room. The darkness was so empty it held no memories — it was cold and smelled of fiends and… enemies. My chest was soaked but my skin was dry. My medical training jumped and I checked for gashes and other wounds.
–
Nope, nothing.
I still clung to the dream, not wanting to forget it yet. It disturbed and vexed me in a way that made me very uneasy. I had perished killing my killer; died bloody in his hands, and he breathless in mine. He’d stabbed me repeatedly as I strangled him in a bright place surrounded by people. It was not a good hour for such thoughts.
I thought back to the day — what was it? I had come home from work dead tired… dead? Could that be it? …nah - too obvious.
Maybe that run… that run yesterday, concentric circles around the 10 miles of the main canals in Amsterdam — it had almost killed me… but no, no. Too much of a stretch.
I thought back to the roda… that was it: that guy. Tall and muscular; a thin face. He wasn’t just dark, like an African American - he was black. Black like emptiness, black like danger. Negro. A pit of confused anger embodied in the color of a man’s skin. Whatever it was, the important thing is that I saw no smile on his face; no white teeth presented themselves. I didn’t like it.
He was angry from the start. There was no playfulness in his attempted take downs, no creativity in his forceful kicks. Who did he think I was? Was he mistaking me for someone else, someone with whom he had a grudge? Had I done something I did not realize? He was coming for me, and there was anger in his face; fury in his exhaled breath.
I dodged, I rolled, and I answered back with my own, but I own no fury like that. I loath nothing that seriously. I’m there for fun.
Then it happened. His arrastao put me on the defensive and I was forced into holding him in a head lock from above; I hate this position. He twisted out of it and instead of putting me in a headlock - which is what usually happens and one of the reasons I hate that position - he pushed me down to the floor. Fuck.
That horrible position on one knee, head down, elbow to the face for protection: completely vulnerable from above. I’ve always had an irrational fear of this position; a trauma of some kind. Maybe a saw a film or something when I was young, but it makes me uneasy. Something akin to that scene where Alex Murphy gets shot in “Robocop” comes to mind. Why the hell was I watching that when I was 7?
Anyway, my enemy close above me, his thigh keeping me down from behind. The position I dread. Then I hear the click of the knife and the air gets cold with the tip of the blade. What? Wait… why? No, wait!
It sinks in easily and the blade under my flesh fills me with fear. As he pulls it out I draw a quick breath out of instinct; a short, pitiful, thin breath that barely whispers any oxygen. I can smell the blood instantly.
In that second I think back to that first time I was knocked down. The friendly mestre who knocked me horizontally five feet into the air (with all his friendliness), and let me fall into the watching crowd. Piles of humiliation. Yeah.
That’s what it was about; humility. It was always about learning humility. And how do you react? Do you try to rid yourself the humiliation by standing up and getting angry? You’d look more foolish and you wouldn’t learn a thing. Do you cower and roll into a fetal position, hoping for pity yet fearing further beating with no defense? Do you just let fear rush in and do it’s thing, settling into a pointless panic? Or do you rise above, learn, and come back with a bit more awareness, your fear fueling your drive and a cool head full of wisdom to drive the strength?
First, I guess — you have to fall well. Then you worry about what to do after the fall. I have fallen many times since then, and have had it with humility. There were other days in which I might have sat still, hoping for action from someone. Help. Pity. No more knockdowns, no more flying through clapping crowds — no more stabbing, please; let it stop here. There were times when I would not have thought to fight back immediately while the strength was still in me.
But not this time.
Before that breath could be drawn in again I stood straight up, my back to his chest, reached back and grabbed his neck, firmed my grip and pulled. I use my hips to push him over and flip him in front of me, on his knees. He never saw this coming. My elbow was already around his throat, squeezing, squeezing the life out of him as I squeezed the hate out of me. I wanted it all gone and I didn’t have much time.
His arms flailed, looking for a hold, trying to tap, trying to scratch, trying to do anything, but I was out of his reach. I didn’t question him. I looked for no explanation; I needed no explanation. He went limp soon enough but I didn’t let go right away. I had more hate still to squeeze out of me and wanted no drop left.
–
As I thought about this horrible moment in that lonely and new kind of dark, a strange sound rang in my ears. A repeating buzzing, loud and terrible as if it were right next to my ears.
What do I do?
Everything around me was fading, the darkness thinning and I could see an outline of… red lights, numbers…
what is this?
I needed to do something, but what? Suddenly:
Alarm! The alarm clock! Turn it off: Right arm, GO! Reach across; not too far! Remember there was a glass of water there or something…
No? You’re not working?
Ok, never mind… left arm, swing around over the chest; you can do it old boy! That’s it! Right onto the buzzer button. Snooze — don’t turn it off!
At a kid!
–
Ok.
–
A nightmare. What time is it? Did I sleep enough? What did I do to deserve this? It’s cold outside isn’t it? Fuck.
It’s going to be a long, strange day.
Oh well. At least I didn’t kill anyone last night, and then die in his arms. What with the Patriot Act and all, it’s a bad time for people who do that kind of thing.
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