Nonsense -- UWS RP Board

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Date Posted: 09:36:41 08/12/03 Tue
Author: Craig Lassiter
Subject: Nonsense

Once upon a time, there was a man who could do no wrong. He was smart, good looking, charismatic, healthy, and had the love and devotion of friends and family alike. He was a hard worker, was innovative, and was always there when someone needed him. In short, he was perfect. He was that which every man aspired to be. He was great. But, this story isn't about him. It probably wouldn't be too interesting if it was, now would it?

Here in the right now, the split-nanosecond that can be called the present, there is a man. A more interesting man. Some would call him intelligent, but he thinks that he is sometimes too smart for his own good. This man thinks that if ignorance is truly bliss, then maybe each brain cell he kills brings him one step closer to nirvana. The man isn't traditionally good looking. He's pretty rugged, which is a polite way of saying that his face has character, but he won't be appearing on any billboards anytime soon. He has a weak chin, but a strong nose. But here's where the perfect man and our hero's paths truly divide. He is alone. Sure, he has some friends, and some family. But when it comes down to it, day in day out, he is alone.

It's by choice, he tells himself. He has deliberately walled himself off from people who might be interested in him. He likes the peace and quiet that comes with a life of desolation. He isn't lonely. He is lone. Like the corresponding wolf or a ranger, he needs no one else. Although in retrospect, the ranger has an indian companion, and a lone wolf generally has a rather short lifespan. But he still considers himself lone. Lone, not lonely; that distinction is important.

The imperfect man creeps around his lone hotel room, thinking; always thinking. He thinks about where he is going to eat tonight. He thinks about what is in store for him this Friday. He thinks about that pretty girl manning the front desk downstairs. Can a woman really man a desk, or does she woman it? He admonishes himself for thinking something so banal. He thinks about the nagging ache in the back of his eyes, and the dull throb coming from his back. He thinks that maybe he should stay in and order room service. They do a great club sandwich here, he recollects. He thinks that he should go out and sample some of the local nightlife. He thinks that he loves being on the road. He thinks that he will quit today, pack it all in, and go home. Always thinking, he looks at the busted remote control for the television. No release, not today. He thinks that he would like it all to stop. Just stop. There's too much everything in the world, and it would be nice if it just stopped. But that's not going to happen, he thinks.

In the end, the easiest decision is the path of least resistance. Get so drunk that the thoughts just stop. An hour later, he's at one of the seediest bars in the city. Is it coincidence that it's within walking distance of the hotel? Probably not. He looks around at those caught in the sink trap of humanity. Poor souls adrift with no set destination, caught by the lure of that boozy smell. Old women, dressed in outfits that would shame girls 20 years younger; old men waiting for the reaper; old staff, having given up on a real life and settling down to one of serving alcohol to the dregs of humanity; they all appeared in front of the set-pieces, going through the motions. No one moved too far off their marks, for fear of upsetting some mad, invisible director. The waitress moved silently, refilling drinks as necessary, and smiling to a few regular patrons. She refilled the glass of our imperfect man, Craig Lassiter.

This wasn't the shot that you got in a regular bar. This was the overflowing shot of a bar whose staff didn't care anymore. That was why Craig came here when he was in town: cheap drinks. There were no young, pert waitresses who giggled and dragged their ample bosoms across the edge of the bar, and there were no interesting local men playing pool and having a good time. This was a bar on the edge of nowhere; where the tired went to die. Slow poison was their specialty. It may take 30 years, but it did the job, and it asked no questions.

Craig drained the glass after raising it to an elderly man beside him. The man did the same with his own beer. Both men joined by the bond of the damned. They shared the wry smiles of those on the front lines who know that it's only a matter of time before their number is up. Craig watched the barfly out of the corner of his eye as she worked her way from table to table, looking for a few free drinks in exchange for a gap-toothed smile and a flash of cleavage. He finished up his drink before she could work her way to him, and staggered out of the bar. His thoughts were few and far between at this point in the night. Food, tits, and sleep; in that order. Craig stared out at the foreign city, and saw no difference than any of the others he'd been in in the last eight months. They were all the same. All dirty and filthy... all home.

His homing instinct carried him down the street to a bus stop where a rake-think gentlemen stood waiting. Craig leaned against the closed shop, staring up into the night sky as he waited. He saw the man glancing back at him, and knew that they would have to speak. Two drunken fools, alone in the dark; the laws of the concrete jungle were unbreakable in this respect.

Craig nodded to him reverently as he looked back. The man was taking forever to roll up a cigarette. He staggered back towards Craig, nearly losing everything onto the ground.

"How you doing?" he mused.

"Not bad," Craig returned, looking straight ahead. The bus was taking forever, as per usual.

The man started to speak, and Craig went into auto-pilot. He said something about visiting an old friend, and now he was trying to get back home. He talked about how the buses were always late, and spoke of his convoluted itinerary. Craig nodded in all the right places, and told the man his name when he asked.

"You're from Ireland," he said.

"Chicago," Craig nodded.

The man pointed at nothing in particular. "Yes, Chicago. But you've got some Irish roots to your... your accent. I can hear it."

Craig agreed with the man, wondering for a few seconds if he was right. He glanced left and right for the bus, but saw nothing. The man continued to wax about accents, and Ireland, and about his friend who he hadn't seen for a long time, and about buses, and about having a good time. Craig nodded, and even spoke a few words when the man talked about drinking, and how it was great fun. They shared trite observances about the shortness of life and the need to grab life by the balls, then thankfully, Craig's bus arrived. He stumbled up the steps and paid the driver before slumping into a seat near the side door. 'Food, tits, and sleep, in that order', he thought.

As the bus rumbled onward, stirring his loins on every pothole, Craig thought back to when he was a complete human being. It hadn't been that long ago. But as time goes by, the resistances wear down, and even the strongest individuals just fall into the groove. It's so much easier to walk in the groove. Sure, you could take the banks, with its nooks and crannys, but sooner or later you just fell into the groove. And once you were in there, there just didn't seem to be any reason to drag yourself out. It was comfortable. Surely a better life existed on either side of that groove, but those roads were difficult. This one was easy. Hell, a man barely had to be alive to stay in the groove. You just had to keep those legs moving, one after another. Left then right, ad infinitum. He kept telling himself that he'd peek his head up over the walls on either side, just to see what he was missing; but he never did. The groove was comfortable, it was home. It was the path of least resistance. He had given up so long ago. Some days he wondered if it would ever change. Some days he wanted to just stop walking entirely. But he kept going, nestled deep within the beaten path, going nowhere new or innovative. He followed the footsteps of so many millions more before him.

One day, maybe, he would poke his head up again. But until then, he just kept on trudging. It was all too easy, yet all too difficult to change. The mantra of "why bother?" floated around his scotch-soaked brain, and he had no answer for it. He kept walking because it was the path of least resistance. He walked through life, he walked past other poor souls on the trail, he walked forever. Sleep would come soon enough, but until then...

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