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Date Posted: 03:46:23 08/08/03 Fri
Author: Craig Lassiter
Subject: Anywhere, Anytime

Injustice is all over. Unless you are Amish, you don't have to go far to see it. Walk through any large city in America, and you'll find someone in misery; someone with nothing to show for their time on this earth. Is that justified? Surely not in all cases. Surely some of these street people are good, honest folk who just fell through the cracks. Some may have mental problems, and you can't fault someone for that. Others may be addicts, and that is another story.

The smell wafted over him as another passenger stumbled past, heading for the back of the bus: That smell of alcohol. Not the smell of alcohol when you're drinking it; sweet, pungent and hot, all at once. It was the smell of alcohol when someone else is drinking it; all stale, fetid, and nauseating. He wasn't sure why that was, but it probably went a long way towards explaining sober people's universal reaction to drunks. It must have had something to do with chemistry. Everything did, if you boiled it down enough. Craig Lassiter wasn't on the wagon. He'd tried that too many times, and it just didn't make sense. Man was given free will, and he intended to use it. He'd never needed to drink. When he drank, it was always a case of him wanting it. Why should he deny himself something that he enjoys.

Dennis Miller once said that he didn't do drugs, because he couldn't find any strong enough to quell his exquisite inner pain. Well booze did the trick for Craig Lassiter just fine, provided the quantity was right. His biggest problem was his brain. The damn just never shut up. Not until that fragrant grain derivative worked its magic. That certainly shut up Mr. Think-all-the-time. He might have had to deal with whatever it came up with the night before, but when he awoke, it was all just a faded memory.

Despite his past--and indeed current--excesses, Craig considered himself in possession of an iron will. If he wanted to quit something, it was enough for him just to say it, and it was done. He just couldn't understand how some people couldn't control themselves. Be it food, alcohol, drugs, sex, or whatever the addiction du jour is this week. He didn't know what it was, but he was sure Ricki knew. Even the most hardcore chainsmoker could refrain from a cigarette for 30 seconds. Why not a year? He couldn't understand the difference. You had complete control over your body, and you chose what you wanted it to do. Breathing, well that was out of your control. But lighting up a cigarette, that took a small concert of muscles, joints, and firing neurons, all of which under your direct control.

People have accused him of being emotionless in the past. He wasn't sure how to take this, but there was probably some truth to it. His emotions were surely more subdued over the past few years than most. In the ring; well that was different. That was business. Emotion rarely entered into it. Endorphines, certainly; the heartrate and reaction time increase that came with them, definitely; but emotion just got in the way most of the time.

He thought back to that night. Watching the video footage of his only nephew being beaten by simple thuggish bullies. He didn't feel hurt, or angry. He felt helpless, though. He felt as if he should have seen it coming; almost like a mental slap on the head after you had locked yourself out of the house. Craig had always prided himself on being able to think one or two steps ahead of most, even in a business full of snakes. But Sean had fallen off his radar. Luckily, the injuries were light. For a second, he teased his mind, imagining if Sean had been seriously hurt, or even killed, just to see if it would provoke a response. There was something there, deep down, but it was closer to annoyance than grief or guilt. That should have bothered him, but it didn't; not really.

They say emotions are simply our interpretation of our hormones; a quality of conscious awareness and a way of responding, whatever that means. It makes perfect sense that if some people have higher emotional levels, then others would have lower ones. Heck, there was probably some poor bastard on the planet right now who has no emotions whatsoever. Punch him in the face, and he'll just keep on walking. Probably on his way to foreclose on an orphanage. Maybe he should have been a banker, Craig thought. At least then, his diminished emotions would be a job requirement.

The bus lurched to a stop, which was the only way it ever stopped. Craig imagined thousands of bus driving instructors across the country, all of which stricken by terminal hiccups. That would explain the driving style of American bus drivers, if nothing else. They treated the brake pedal like a pinata, and stomped on it in the hopes that candy might come out. Not the best simile, he had to admit; but it was late, and he was tired.

Buses, trains, trams, elevators, escalators, planes, and cabs; all separate little environments that he inhabited for short--or sometimes long--periods of time. Sometimes it seemed as if his entire life was punctuated by tickets. That, and the smell of humanity. The writing of humanity, that was epic. The music of humanity, that was moving. The discovery of humanity, that was awe-inspiring. The smell of humanity, however, was neither of these.

Another faceless commuter shambled past, heading towards the back of the bus. One got on, and two got off. Why did it always seem to be that way? Why was the biggest group getting on the bus always at his stop? I guess it had something to do with statistics, but as previously noted, it was late, and he was tired. Navigating the streets inside a lit bus at night was an exercise in futility, and was truly some of the devil's finest work on this earth: subtle and infuriating. Luckily, Craig's stop was the last one on the route. He could have even caught some sleep if he had any faith in humanity at all. But he didn't; not really.

The bus came to its final stop, marked by the relieved sigh of the driver, and Craig slid out of the seat dragging his heavy gear bag behind him. He staggered past the driver without a word, and stepped out of the bus. Even when he wasn't drunk, the stagger seemed to be his preferred mode of locomotion. Being drunk, be it punch or alcohol-based, lended itself to a stagger, and he'd certainly had experience with both kinds. The injuries didn't help. Craig didn't work a full schedule anymore, but you couldn't tell that to his aching body. His ribs groaned with every step, and his back seemed ready to just give up, leaving him to fold up in a heap on the ground.

Craig wandered through the well-lit parking lot of the hotel. The automatic doors opened for him, just as they had for everyone else, and he headed inside.

Another hotel, another city, but always the same: the same ugly carpet, the same braindead front desk staff, the same trampy older ladies in the bar.

Craig's feet instinctively turned towards the bar before he realized what they were doing. Sure, they were just trying to scratch two itches with one finger, but it was late and he was tired. Besides, he wasn't keen on blood tests or waking up in a foreign city covered in puke. Call him old-fashioned.

His mind had wandered off somewhere again, running through old movie scripts or commercial jingles or something, leaving him with just enough mental faculties to function. That was fine by him. The less endless chatter he had to listen to the better. There was no need for a drink tonight. He was tired enough to fall asleep almost instantly, he could feel it. And he had a big day tomorrow. Afterall, he had an iron will. He didn't want a drink, so he wouldn't have one. It was just that simple.

Pushing the button, Craig waited for the elevator.

Then, just when he thought he was safe, his brain returned. "Your taxes are late again, did you know that?" it asked him. "They'll lock you up for sure this time. How long do you think you'll live, seriously? What percentage of your life is already over, and how much do you have left. I can tell you, if statistics are anything to go by. And just what have you got to show for it? Think you'll ever meet that girl you're always fantasizing about? Maybe you've already met her, and screwed it up. Kids? You'd love a son of your own, wouldn't you? Did you hear that potato chips cause cancer? Of course you did, I told you. I know you don't eat them any more, but you certainly scarfed down enough over the years, didn't you? And what about all that Mad Cow stuff you read about in 'Stupid White Men'? They don't know how long it lays dormant, you know. That stuff lives in your brain."

Craig closed his eyes as the elevator doors shushed open. He stepped in, just as a young couple rushed up from behind him, joining him inside.

"Look at them," his brain said. "That guy is a shmuck, and he's got a hot girlfriend. How do you think that happened? He wasn't born with her. He must have met her somewhere. They're newlyweds, by the look of it. And what about the size of your peni--"

An arm shot out, catching the door just before it slid closed. With a rattle, the doors slid open again, and Craig dragged his bag and his body back into the lobby. He walked with purpose towards the hotel bar, with his brain still chattering away.

Just a few drinks, until that damn thing shut up. Then he could sleep.

Craig staggered into the bar, ignoring the clientele, all four of them. Slumping his tired body onto a barstool, he signalled for staff. Maybe he just seemed apathetic about everything else because he could see the big picture. Yes, he couldn't see anything else for the big picture. And the big picture is painted in just one color: Black.

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