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Under the Gun
‘experimental literature of an urgent
nature’
By b2
Copyright © 2013 b2 publishing
Thank you for purchasing this e-book.
Although it was free, it remains the copyrighted property of the author and may
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No alteration of content is allowed, nor may you alter your halter while reading
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Your support and respect for the
property of this author is appreciated.
This is a work of creative
non-fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are
most likely convenient hallucinations, but also could very well be the products
of the author’s warped imagination. In either case, all information is used in
a fictitious manner and not intended to replace history books, encyclopaedias,
or one’s individual responsibility to use their head for more than a hat rack.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events could be
coincidental, but I doubt it.
**The thoughts, words, and ideas
contained in this work have not been homogenized for the masses. While it is
not my intention to be labeled as a writer of ‘Adult Content’, nor do I feel
that anything you are about to read is harmful or profane. However, I do come
from a long line of sailors. The bottom line / bottom line is that if your
children are required to use the word bottom when referring to their backside
(as is mandated in my house) then you may want to consider reading your child a
Dr. Seuss book and putting them to bed prior to scrolling to the next page**
Under the Gun
Forward
Welcome
to the world of 'Under the Gun', experimental literature from the pontificator
at large, b2. Each of the chapters of this book was originally released as
installments on the blog ‘b2publishing’. No more than twenty minutes were spent
on each episode so that second guessing could not place a burden upon the
creative process. No editing was done prior to the release of each chapter, no
safety net was used, and all works were immediately released for spontaneous
public regurgitation. So throw out all of your postconcieved notions about what
a reading experience should be. Open your mind, let go of your fear, and
release the kraken. –b2
UTG
Do you ever feel like the clock is ticking?
Not running late for work, gonna miss a podiatrist appointment
ticking. I'm talking about it's all gonna be over at any second so you better
kick it in one time before your heart explodes kind of ticking.
Well, I've felt that way for three years. In some ways I've been
like this my whole life. It doesn't mean that I'm incredibly productive or even
that I have any sort of special abilities to get things done. My only super
hero power is that the blood in my veins moves faster than most, yet my blood
pressure remains unnaturally low.
You see, I have a condition. An ailment of sorts. The kind that
no ones' heard of, and nobody is running a foot race to cure. There's not a
501c3 non-profit seeking donations, there's no viral effort using social media
to raise awareness. You won't see firefighters standing at traffic lights with
their boots in hand.
What you will find is time bomb with a very short fuse. A dried
up rubber band, stretched and ready to snap. You'll find me. Fooling everyone,
convincing no one.
No one, that is, except for myself.
UTG - II, Sense of Urgency
There was a show on cable a
while back about people with strange compulsions. No, I wasn't on it. But I can
relate to one of the strange byrd's that was profiled.
He couldn't stop working out.
Sounds a little silly, right. Well, that's the nature of the show I guess.
The really weird thing was that
this guy didn't appear like one would guess: all juiced up and popping out of
his clothes with ripped flesh. He look liked Larry from down the block, in
khakis. He actually worked out in Dockers and a Polo.
He wasn't strung out on roids
(as far as I know, anyway). He didn't compete in the Mr. Universe contest. He
was just a guy who was addicted to lifting weights.
Six, eight, ten times a day he
would sneak to a gym (he belonged to a half dozen) and jump on a machine, pick
up some free weights and sweat his way through some oldies like his life
depended on it.
I can relate. Sort of.
UTG-III, Diagnosis: Denial
"Mr. B, the
doctor will see you know".
"I'll be there in
a minute."
"Excuse me?"
"Just a
minute...please. I've only have two more hidden pictures to find in this issue
of Highlights."
The nurse practitioner
did not act as if she found this humorous, but then again I didn't have a lot
to laugh about today myself.
I cancelled and
delayed this follow-up appointment at least four times, quite miffed by the
fact that they wouldn't give me details over the phone. I know most of the
blood work that was ordered was routine, but the bone aspirate was just plain
weird. Yeah, the drugs were a riot, but having a piece of your femur scooped up
like the 31st flavor is not my idea of a D.H. Lawrence picnic.
The self-flagellation
that is putting off what you are convinced is horrible news is something of an
art form. Some of the most prolific in the history of man ulcers have come
about, or beautifully aggravated, by the internal struggles of a troubled soul.
Finding new ways to worry is like a rat seeking a better mouse trap. But hey, everybody’s'
gotta be good at something.
The courtesy paper has
torn and the cold steel is a shock to the part of my cheek not protected by the
flimsy examination gown. I thought for sure that we were at the consultation /
sit down in a cushy chair portion of the proceedings. Rumor has it that some
Md's will dress you down in order to dress up their uniform whites. The medical
equivalent to a boss elevating their desk chair.
Once I really start
getting into the giant diagram of the inner ear, my blankness is sharply
interrupted by the polite apologies of my health professional.
"Mr. B, how have
you been lately?"
Lately? You mean
like since you robbed me of bone marrow and sent me home to stew in a stress
pool of my own makings?
"Wonderful! And
you?" There are just some mindless social interactions that even a
borderline maniac cannot avoid kowtowing to.
"Good, good. How
are the workouts coming along? Still keeping them to down to 2 or 3 a
day".
"Of course."
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever you want to hear doc. Let's get this over with so
that I can sneak in some pushups in the parking lot before forcing myself to
vomit behind your Bentley.
"Great! You know, moderation is the key.
Well,.... I guess you would like to hear about your blood work?"
No, I wanta shove
tongue depressors in your ear until I can hear your ear drum play the solo
from Crazy Train! Yes, I want to hear about the blood work. HIT ME WITH IT!!
"Oh. Are the results back already?
Sure." Oh, sure. Are the results back already. Give me a break, will
ya'?!
"Mr. B,....we found an anomaly in your tests. As
a matter of fact, we are not sure...........Mr.B.........NURSE! Mr. B, can you
hear me!"
As a matter of
fact, I can't. Because while you were pacing, and carefully choosing your words,
I had decided to make a dive for the tongue depressors. Unfortunate for me, and
the 95 lb. nurse that had to help you lift me back on the table, my feeble
attempt at an auditory dissection resulted only in my own syncopatic
episode.
I blacked out and
ended up as a hot mess on the floor. Face down, pale side up, poking out of my
gown of course.
At least I didn't have
an ulcer. Not yet, anyway.
UTG IV: Hard Pressed
Luck has never been my
lady when it comes to doctor visits. The most vivid memory I have of early
childhood is a visit to an ENT.
It had no allergies at
the time. I was not plagued with ear infections, or even the sniffles. I simply
needed a nut removed from deep inside my nasal cavity.
1/4 - 20 fine thread I
think it was. My friend Chuck and I were taking turns shoving pieces of
hardware from our metal cots up our nose to see who could go the farthest.
I won.
Pre-school was such a
blast (when I wasn't having medical extractions done, anyway). Chuck and I had
a routine down. As soon as our Mom's dropped us off we would take our wooden
name blocks straight to the apple room. That is where the turn table was.
Ah yes, forty-five
heaven. 'Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head' over and over again. I don't care
what you say, B.J. Thomas was THA' MAN!
Then, after nap/nose
shoving we would head straight for the sandbox. The fact that I did not end up
a structural engineer is absolutely amazing when you account for the tunnels
that we dug for our metal Tonka trucks. But that's not why I went to the
sandbox. I was there for Tiffany.
You see, I never went
through an 'ooh, girls are gross' - pull pig tails - throw rocks at Suzy -
phase. (Remember this: everything for me is a race. Everything.) I
dug chicks from the get-go.
And Tiffany was the
sweetest babe on this side of the jungle gym.
There, among the
monuments to sand creativity, I had my first kiss. At 4 years old.
Lucky for me, my
second kiss was year's later. Apparently an early start does not necessarily
equate to steady momentum. I didn't realize this back in pre-school. I learned
this lesson much later in life.
As a matter of fact,
it was about the time I first started noticing the symptoms.............
UTG
V - Shifts in Priority
Waking up from anesthesia after a
procedure is a messed up experience as it is. Coming to in a medical
environment when it's not planned will turn your brain upside down. I've woken
up in ambulances and emergency rooms more times than I care to admit, but
waking up in my GP's office after going night-night in a heap on the floor is a
singular experience.
Was the air conditioner on this high before? My
dainty little examination gown was drenched in sweat and was somehow giving me
a wedgie. My forehead was throbbing and I was certain that I was freezing to
death.
"Feeling better Mr. Byrd?"
Hell yes! Never been better. Where has this
place been all my life?
"I'm a little cold; could I have a blanket please?" Can I have a
blanket please? Oh, brother, why don't you give her a tip and add her to your
will while you're at it. You make me sick.
The voice was back.
Not my usual don't be stupid voice. Not the
hey-everybody-watch-this / great idea voice. Not even my conscience (yes,
I have one). But the voice. The voice that second guesses, criticizes,
undermines.
The voice.
Right now it was chastising me for not telling
the nursing staff how I really felt. For being civil under duress. For being
me.
The doctor will be back in to see you shortly. Yeah,
sure. Shortly my a...
"Oh,..... yeah. The doctor. That's fine. Can I have a blanket, please?
Can I have a blanket please....you really are pathetic when you are hurt, you
know that?
The medicine that my other doctor put me one
just about had the voice silenced. But two months ago, shortly after the
symptoms started, I stop taking all prescriptions and even my daily
vitamin. I could only eat jello and broth for two weeks while they
tried to eliminate the possibility of poisoning or an allergic reaction.
It all started with the headaches. But they
were unlike any headache I had ever experienced. Not the behind-the-eye-sinus
variety or the pulsing-skull-I-swear-I-didn't-drink-Yeager'-last-night kind.
These were different.
Sharp jets of pain would leap from inner ear to
inner ear, back and forth until tears came to my eyes. Then the scars on the
back of my head would start throbbing as if they were going to split open and
let my synovial fluid spill all over the back of my knotted neck.
The scars. I almost forgot about the scars.
They don't call it exploratory surgery for
nothing. If it's done right (or in my case very, very wrong) the procedure is
only the beginning of the exploration.
They said it was routine. For them maybe.
UTG VI: Sorry, gotta' go....My hair is on
FIRE!!!
"Lymph node? What
the hell is a lymph node?!! And why do you want to cut one out of my
skull?"
Six weeks ago; before
the bone sample was drilled out of my leg, before my rendition of Admiral
Woodward on the exam room floor, and before my forehead ached like cracked
Quickrete; I was being faced with 'elective' surgery. I could opt to find the
cause of my ails (and / or chalk another one off the list) or choose to
bury my head in the almighty sand of denial.
"Mr. B., it
really is a routine biopsy..." there it is again, ROUTINE!
"When you say
'routine',...what kind of 'routine' do you mean exactly?" I had
quickly, rudely, interrupted the nurse practitioner who really was doing her
best to provide me what I needed in order to make an informed decision. And
here I was making big quotation symbols with my raised hands and fingers every
time I said 'routine'.
"Is it
a dance 'routine'? Is it a comedy 'routine?!! Is it a freaking exercise
'ROUTINE'?!!"
"Perhaps you
should take some time to think about your options".
Oh,...she says
you have options. How wonderful. How adventurous. Yeah!! Options!!
I spent that night
learning everything the Internet had to offer on Lymph Nodes:
- "Lymph
nodes are football shaped organs that play an integral role in the
humane immune system...." - Sick-i-Pedia
- "....the biopsy of a lymph node is utilized
to analyze the immune system or to identify diseases, such as
cancer." - WebQuack.Net
- "Swollen or pain full lymph nodes are
generally a sign of government involvement in the local water
supply....." - isweartheyreouttogetus.org
Needless to say, I
didn't learn much. But I did decide that going under the knife was better than
not knowing. Boy was I naive.
Now, as a lump begins
to push my eyebrow into full view of my red veined eyeball, I sit and wait for
Doc Mengele to deliver my fate. I could hardly believe hearing myself
repeatedly refuse perfectly good pain medication.
No, not this time. I
wanted answers. And I wanted to be perfectly coherent, bulging brow or not, to
hear the sentence laid out for me.
So I sit, biding my
time. Biting my tongue. Pushing the internal battle, the voice, deeper into my
midsection. Swallowing the last scraps of my chewed up pride.
Patience isn't really
my thing either. That's why I've been lifting weights 4 times a day. It's the
motivation behind my latest change in eating lifestyle (call it what ever you
want, it's still a diet). It serves as the basis for the 8-10 self improvement
books I tear through each week, reading until my book light flickers and I
finally doze off for 2, maybe 3 hours. It's been like this for over three years
now. And the real crazy thing is, I feel like I'm just getting started.
It's like someone
finally shot the starting gun, or I just got around to hearing it. Something
changed deep inside me and I'm not sure that it's necessarily a good thing or
not. But what I do know it has inched its way into every facet of my life.
Relationships can't mature fast enough. Which is why I usually come across
either charming or harsh, depending on the demeanor of the recipient in my
latest bull in a social china shop attempt of introducing myself.
Case in point, here is
a conversation I had just the other day. Seemed like run of the
mill daily minutia at the time. But once I had the chance to think about
it later that night as I laid in bed second guessing every decision that I
had made during the previous 72 hours (I had finished my 8th and 9th
book on Thursday morning and had gotten so hung up on trying to scrub the
rust off an old turnbuckle I found during my daily 5 mile hike that I
didn't even look at the clock 'til forty five minutes after the library
had closed). The veterinarian's office had called to confirm my dog's
appointment for the next day:
"Hello, this is
Margaret from East Side Animal Clinic. Is this the home
of Keaton and Buster?"
"Yes it is, but
they can't come to the phone right now."
The long pause
followed by a polite giggle made it obvious that my lame attempt at charm
had at least brought a smile to her face.
"...I'm sorry,
you caught me off guard a little. That was pretty funny".
And, I could have left
it at that, confirmed the appointment and let this lady go about her day and
continue on full-filling her post-retirement / second career aspirations in professional
animal care.
But NOOOOOO! I had to
take it a little farther.
"Do you have
pets?"
"Well,...yes. I
have a poodle."
"Where do you
take them for shots?".
"I actually don't
believe in vaccinations."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I
mean, I'm sorry that I asked.....but since I did. Do you not believe in them
for people as well?"
I relived that twisted
excuse for a conversation at least 25 times before reverting back to my old
stand bye lament involving an odometer reading in 1992.
And I'm not just
anxious over new relationships. Like any parent I want my boys to be smarter
than me. But I want it yesterday. Literally. So I insist on a daily regime of
trying to force feed them information that I am not an authority on.
Then there's my
siblings. I regularly put them through their own personal obstacle course of
emotional landmines and guilt traps. Oh, but I have justifications for my
intentions. I can justify with the best of 'em. I just want to strengthen our
bond. And I want it RIGHT NOW!
I can't be bothered
with details like experiences and all that live in the now, smell the
roses mumbo jumbo. Don't get me wrong (so help you), I am an optimist. To some
pretty sick degrees in fact. But when it comes to time....when it comes to the
finality of it all..........when it comes to getting it all done....in
time........
"NURSE!! Excuse
me, NURSE. Yes, I've changed my mind about those pain killers. And can I get
another blanket. Thank you."
"Say, do you have
any pets?"
UTG - VII: Facing the Muzak
"Mr. B., I'm not
sure how to tell you this......."
"So just tell me
Doc."
"Well,....John,....we
found something in your marrow..."
come on! I ain't
got all day.
"What is it Doc."
"We're not
exactly sure...."
what are you paying
this guy for, anyway?
"Is it cancer
Doc?"
"No! Well,....we
don't think so."
oh!! he doesn't think
so. well isn't that just peachy!
"What are saying
Doc?"
"I'm saying that
whatever it is, it's very rare. Look, I'm a little over my head here, John.
I've talked to the folks over at U-Med, we'd like to run some more tests....."
"MORE
TESTS?!!"
now you're talking,
let 'em have it!
"..they're expecting you. It's all lined up."
you hear that, it's
all lined up. whoo-hooo! it's all lined up.
"Would you shut the hell up!!"
"Look, John, you
need to calm down."
"I was'nt talking
to you."
"I know this has gotta be a little
scary..."
you hear that! he knows!
"..there's also someone I'd like you to talk to. A
friend of mine on staff at U-Med."
"A shrink? You
don't know what's wrong with me, and now you want me to talk to a shrink?!"
yeah, now we're
talking. let 'em have it. you don't need to talk to anybody.
"Doc?"
"Yes, John?"
"Do you have any
pets?"
don't do it. I'm
telling you right now. we don't need no shrink. you got me, you don't need no
stupid shrink! don't you dare!
"Yeah, we have a dog. Why do you ask."
"I'll talk to
your friend, Doc. But no more tests today, okay. No more tests".
"Sure John. No
more tests today."
UTG VIII: Today is tha' Day.......
Today will be
different. Everything changes right and here and now. Today is the day.
Today is the day I'm
going to put plans into action, take names, and kick a--. Today is the day my
Ts will be powerfully crossed and my Is will be dotted with a smiley face.
Today my microwave popcorn will not have any un-popped kernels at the bottom of
the bag.
Hesitation will be
tossed aside and replaced with a sense urgency. Contemplation will step aside
for the arrival of methodical execution. Today I will re-invent myself and
recycle the biodegradable mold. Today complete, long term, sustainability
will be realized on a universal scale.
Today the
osteoarthritis in my knees will be reversed as the cartilage is regenerated.
Shoulder pain slips away as the rotator cuff tendon is enveloped in atrophied
muscle. My conscience even feels healthier as yesterday loses its significance
and tomorrow slips from reality.
Today I will be first
to act, watch your back, and be ready for a counter-attack. There will be no
need to retract, stretch the facts, or kneel to prevent a sack. Today will be
different, today things are gonna change.
Listening will active,
words will be well thought. Intentions will be clear and methods will be
proven. Faith will be constant, then questioned, tested, lost, and
then regained again, but at a much stronger level. Fear will be respected,
but will not under any circumstances get in the way of expressing love,
compassion, and truth.
Feelings will be
considered, others will be recognized. Glory will be shared, blame will be kept
selfishly. Selflessness will be rampant, egos will go dormant. Learning will
become paramount, teaching will remain heroic.
Eye contact will be
encouraged, accepted, and returned. Handshakes, hugs, and high-fives will
become commonplace. Touching someone else's heart will be allowed, opening your
own will be mandatory. Leaders will follow, students will step up to the plate.
Today is the day.
Yesterday's gone and tomorrow never comes. It doesn't matter if you feel
ready are not, it's here. But this isnt' about you, following me. This is about
me preparing for what's next. Today truly is the day. Today, I fight back.
Today I will come face to face with them. Today I will confront my external
demons.
I'm not really sure
how long they have been following me. But can I can tell you that it was almost
two weeks ago that I noticed. That was the day everything started to change.
That was the day that I knew that this day would come.
UTG: IX - Hook It Up.....
Sometimes having a
deep respect for something doesn't discount the fact that it completely buggs
you out. That's how I secretly feel about U-Med. Don't get me wrong, I'm a big
outspoken fan of the crown-jewel of college hospitals. The campus and
facilities are world-class, the research and leading edge research they conduct
is legendary, and the staff are no less than angels walking the earth. Hell,
they brought my dad back from the dead, twice. But the idea of walking through
those doors as a patient makes me a complete hot mess of a train wreck.
Yesterday.
Well,..yesterday was fantastic. Yesterday was unique. Yesterday I was on fire.
Yesterday is gone, and
I am highly concerned that tomorrow may never come.
Yet here I am, in the
lobby, almost two hours before my appointment. And it's not just because
of the Keurig coffee maker. Not completely. I also had some forms to fill out.
Have you ever had
surgery? Yes. Do you have any allergies? Yes. Are you currently on any
medications? Yes. Are you experiencing any Pain? Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes........
three, four years ago these were all a big fat NO! Am I getting that old?
Am I getting that frail? Am I really that neurotic?
"John?"
"John?"
"Oh...yes,..sorry.
I don't usually answer to my first name, I mean, I go by my middle name."
"The doctor will
see you now".
"Really,
already?"
"Well, actually
I'm going to move you to the examination room where you will sit alone for a
couple of hours without anything to read."
"Oh, okay."
"I'm just
kidding, John. I mean Mr. B. Follow me, please."
i'm telling you
right now, if she asks you to put on another one of those stupid gowns I'm
gonna freak!
Great, the voice is
back. Just great. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the five cups of coffee
I've poured down my gullet in the last forty-five minutes. I really should have
gone ahead and made that shrink appointment.
Thankfully I was not
led into another exam room, no not today. Today I have finally received the
leather-wrapped, oak-varnished, book-lined, office-consultation that has been
denied me for so long during this entire twisted drama that has become my life.
Despite my extreme
caffeine buzz and subsequent need to powder my nose the cushy comfort of my
doctor's guest chair almost lulled me sleep.
"Mr. B, good
morning. I'm Dr. Sladge. Hope you haven't been waiting long."
no you don't. you
freaks live for this stuff. now kick it in and tell us what in the wide world
of sports is going on here?
"No, not at all."
"I've read your
chart and have a few questions. How long have you been experiencing the
symptoms?"
really? if this
chump has read your chart, why is he asking such a stupid question.
"Ah, about three
years now."
"And when did you
first seek medical consultation?"
"Three months
ago."
"I see........Mr.
B. I'm glad you're here today.
well that makes one
of us!
"I think you are a very lucky man."
whoo-hoo, you're
lucky! this guy is rich.
"U-Med happens to
have the world's leading polycthemic research program and.."
"Excuse me.
Poly-O-what-ic?
"Oh, sorry.
Polyethemic, as in polycthemia vera. We have reason to believe Mr. B that you
are suffering from an extremely rare case of thin blood."
"Thin blood? You
mean like Hemophilia?"
"Well, we don't
think that you have any issues with co-agulation. Or high blood pressure for
that matter."
"That's good, I
think. So what IS the problem?"
"Well, Mr. B. We
think that your blood is traveling twice as fast as a health.....as an average
person your size and...."
"And..?"
"And while in the
short term you could actually experience heightened endurance, increased
strength, and an abnormal ability to comprehend, to learn quickly..."
"Why is this a
problem?"
..and in the LONG term
you could suffer from advanced fatigue syndrome, dehydration, strokes, or even
heart attack."
nice! you should
qualify for some really good drugs now!
"Just shut
up!"
"Excuse me?"
"Sorry, not you
Dr. Sledge."
"Hey, Jim
mentioned that he put in a call to Charles, I mean Dr. Foley. Have you spoken
to him yet."
"No, but I think
I might need to. Doc, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure, John.
Please do."
"Do you have any
pets?"
oh boy, here we
go!!!
UTG X: ....and how do you feel about
that?
"So how does this
work, exactly Dr. Foley?" I mumbled, chin to chest, eyes to the floor
picking out patterns and faces in the medium shag.
"Please, call me
Charles."
"Okay, how does
all of this work, Chuck?" I said smugly, with eyes now fixed straight on
the head shrinker before me. I would say that my patience with being a patient
was wearing thin, but since I have not patience (about anything) there was
really nothing left to wear.
"How would you
like it to work, John?"
"Please, call me
Mr. B." This guy is going to get no where fast with me.
"Okay,..Mr. B.,
how would you like to spend your time here today?"
well for starters,
big boy, how 'bout you bring that hassock over here and go grab us some beers
while I put my feet up....
"I don't know, I guess I was expecting that you
would ask me some questions, I guess."
oh brother, you
really do love you some doctor's, don't ya'?!!
"Well, first of all there are no set rules on
how a therapy session has to be. I think that to start with we just concentrate
on getting to know each other a little better."
I think I'm going
to be sick. this mutual admiration crap is way too rich for me....
That's when it
happened. It all just spilled out. Somehow I managed to skip the pre-requisite
five visits to a psychologist prior to really opening up. Right then, right
there, I single handedly saved my insurance company over twelve thousand
dollars:
"There is a voice
in my head that is constantly berating me, insulting others, second guessing
every decision I make, and is so vile that it sometimes makes me want to drive
sixteen penny nails into my ears just in the hopes that it will shut the hell
up for five minutes so that I can have a little peace." There I said it,
out loud, in the presence of a medical practitioner.
you've done it now,
mister! they're gonna lock you in a silly room with all the droolly heads and
shock you up right, one-flew-over-the-cookoo's-nest-style! yes-sir-ree-bob! you
are completely and utterly screwed!
"I see." Doctor Chuck nodded as he furiously
scribbled notes with a purple sharpee on a dog-eared yellow legal pad with
doodles all over the cardboard backing.
"I see."
Again he nodded.
"Mr. B."
This time looking up over his bi-focals, the whites of his eyes making his gray
comb-over look even more brittle and dry. "Do you have any pets?"
"Mr. B."
"Mr. B?"
"Mr. B.,....Dr.
Foley will see you now."
The waiting room
slowly came into focus and I frantically looked around the room at the new
faces that had arrived during my slumber. Wondering how many of them noticed
the line of drool that ran all the way from my lip down to the Highlights
picture puzzle on page 73.
wake up jerky! time
to see the head shrinker, blood-boy! now don't go and screw this up. we don't
want to be sent the silly room, now do we?
Under the Gun: XI - Let's Get Down To
Brass Tact
No kid ever
dreams that they will one day grow to be in MRO sales, Besides the fact
that most kids kids have no idea what MRO is, heck most adults don't either.
Sometimes I think that half of the people in the business of Maintenance,
Repair, and Operations products for industry don't know what it means.
No, most kids I grew
up with wanted to be doctors, lawyers, firefighters, soldiers, or Evil Knievel.
I was no different. Okay, I was a little different. I wanted to be a writer.
And at 41 years old, I'd probably be a pretty good one by now if I'd had stayed
the course.
'Tha' course' I'm
referring to was my grand plan. I had it all figured out. In the late eighties
Orlando, Florida was just coming into it's own as the 'Hollywood of the East'.
The University of Central Florida had just opened it's cinematography
department, and I had just graduated high school. The timing couldn't have been
better.
Or could it. Looking
back now I can see that the early symptoms had already started to show. I was
laying the groundwork for what was to become a twenty year internal battle
between me and my destiny.
The ink hadn't even
dried on my diploma and I was on 75 South blazing a trail to O-town the
day after graduation. I remember being pulled over, not for speeding, but
because the Georgia state trooper wanted know what was in all the milk crates
in my back seat. My answer, "everything".
And everything it was.
Twenty three 45's, eleven albums, seventy two cassette tapes, one boom box,
three pairs of Levi's, two Allman Brother's concert shirts, one blue jean
jacket, and a lava lamp. Everything, and bag a chips.
Despite the lead I had
gotten from a family member who's co-worker's brother was the senior editor at
Disney Studios, I immediately got two jobs washing dishes. And wash dishes I
did. I spent so much time with my head stuck inside the steamy hole of a
Hobart commercial sanitation machine that I was the only eighteen year old
on the east coast with clear skin.
And I ate good too.
No, I didn't clean any plates if that's what you're thinking. I took care of
myself. Each and every payday I went out and got a brand new jar of Goober
Grape. Sometimes I would even splurge on a loaf of bread to spread it on. But
not often.
The lack of dietary
sustenance didn't slow me down a bit. I was driven by a different kind of
hunger. What I needed was the right environment. The right friends. The right
mindset. What I needed was money. I was convinced that if I worked hard enough,
conquer-the-world-hard-enough, then I could arrive a special time and place
that would allow me to follow my passions. I would one day be free to feed my
muse. But first I needed to make it. It never occurred to me, not once, that if
I followed my passions a life could unfold. I chose the path of sweat. And
sweat I did.
But this 'Jack' didn't
let all that work make him a dull boy. Oh no. I made it to UCF. Sort of.
Delta Tau Chi
fraternity, off campus, was my one and only foray into collegiate life.
Needless to say, I didn't
sleep much that year. Or the next really. At first I passed it off as the
exuberance of youth, though I don't think that I used the word exuberance until
I was well into my thirties. Later I found that my mind and my body were on
completely different rest cycles. Sometimes I would be sleepwalking through
life, other times I would be frozen on the floor, limbs given out, yet mind
racing with ideas, solutions, and ever increasing quandaries. What was I
running after, when would I find it, what would I do then.
I try not to regret
how many years I spend running after an unknown prize. After all, if I had not
made every decision, made every move, taken every turn, I would not be where I
am right now.
well right now
you're waiting to see a head shrinker because you are being a panty waist
about the blood sickness they think you have.......
And right now I'm
waiting to see a therapist because of the voice in my head......
oh, so
now it's MY FAULT!! listen here blood-boy, you need me. YOU NEED ME!!
...and due to the fact that I haven't cried
in twenty five years.
liar, liar..you cry
all the time.
Despite the occasions
that have seemed 'appropriate' I only seem to get angry.
now you're
talking...come on get mad....
I've come close to
crying a couple of times, while listening to music, alone.
no, I said get mad,
not sappy. boy you're a piece-a-work!
At age seventeen
screaming Alice Cooper's "I'm 18, and I like it" to the top of my
lungs til my dry eyes started to burn.....
i'm telling you,
don't go there....
Again, a few years
later the first time I heard Radiohead's "High and Dry".....
don't you do it!!
...and now, every
single time "disarm" from The Smashing Pumpkins comes on.
"I think that we made some real progress today
Mr. B."
"I do too, Dr.
Foley. I do too."
oh me too. now,
let's go do some 'driving and crying', shall we. give-unto-me-a-break......
UTG: XII - Cashing in
I as halfway home from
the therapists office at U-Med before I noticed them. The black Crown Vic' with
out a spec of dust on it wasn't fooling anybody. My initial thoughts of loosing
them in rush hour traffic dissolved when I remembered that I in fact was not
driving a Bullitt edition Mustang and that my trusty 4 cylinder would do no
more than make them cough a little from the invertible smoke screen that
would occur if I tried to bark the tires.
So instead I did what
any other god fearing American would do when faced with such a situation while
driving his brother's car would do, clinically depressed or not. I slowed
down to a crawl as we approached the interstate, forcing them to catch up,
obviously trying hard not to pass me. Then stopping at the cloverleaf on a
yellow light I put it in park, gunned the ignition one last time, and while
they choked on my emissions I got out and walked diagonally across the
intersection daring the off- ramp traffic to take me out in the process.
Unfortunately no one
had enough guts or anger to turn me into street pizza so I made it across in
time disappear among the crowd of 9-5ers getting off the 29 bus and heading for
the check cashing joint before beelining to the Tally-Ho dive bar.
Figured that I
had killed more birds with that one stone than the vice president
ever did with a shotgun. Sure, it would be only a matter of time before they
caught up with me. But at least I would have time for a few beers prior to
calling Rich and giving him the great news about his car.
Besides, that was just
plain fun.
Until I realized what
I had left in my brother's car.
The beers would have
to wait. And the first call I needed to make was not to my brother.
UTG: XII - Cut to the Chase!
Caught up to an old
friend the other day on the phone. Or I should say, he caught up to me. Asked
me what I'd been up to. "Same thing as twenty five years go....", I
muttered, "...trying to find my niche."
He didn't bite, but
then again, either did I. The conversation slowly died a torturously painful
death until we both simultaneously gave it the "well it was good talkin'
with ya'.....yeah....goodtimes....." - click. No goodbye, no see ya' later,
just - click.
Still don't know why I
did it. He was always a cool guy. Guess I just didn't want to be reminded that
I had sold my soul for one way ticket on a hamster wheel bound for
perpetual-grind-town, USA. Sure I had my share of kicks, usually they were
aimed at my own backside, but I had them none-the-less.
None the less. What a
great group of words that is. Makes one feel pretty darn good to use such
wonderfully optimistic, yet undeniably horrible English phrase, not once,
but twice in one rant. I might just be able to get to sleep before dawn
tonight. I feel like I have really accomplished something.
Then I remembered
Rick's car.
I had such a good time
letting the blue-collars buy me drinks at Tally-Ho I had completely forgotten
to share the funny story of where I had parked my brother's car, with my
brother. Not that he would be surprised. The last time Rick handed me a
set of key's I promptly handed them to the guy who ended up driving his
new truck to Miami. It took fifteen years before we could laugh about that one.
Fifteen years to find humour in the loss of a hot pink low rider with a
tailgate that simply said 'YO'. The license plate might as well had said 'pull
me'.
Well at least I have
that to look forward to. In another fifteen years we can have a big laugh about
how I parked his oldsmo-buick in the middle of the boulevard during rush hour
traf.........
In another fifteen
years. With the way the 'experts' are talking, I'll be lucky to have
fifteen weeks.
don't you start a'
whining now, blood-boy. i'm just starting to have some fun. what ya' say we
call your brother now, what is it three in the morning. that'll get his blood
boiling. oh, blood boiling, you should know all about that eh?!! heheheheheheh
I must be sobering up,
the voice is back, and he's starting to make some sense.
oh yeah, i'm back
alright. and i'm ready to light it up! whoo-hoo!! Tally-hhhoooooooooooo!
UTG: XIV - Placebo for your Libido...
I think I was twenty
five years old before I realized that you could use vise-grip pliers for
anything besides replacing a broken handle on a car window. You
see, I come from the duct-tape, motor- honey, rag-as-a-gas-cap school of
shady tree mechanics. Cars I work on are guaranteed not to rust, bust, or
collect dust. But in all my days I had never seen anything quite like the
sweater incident.
Being late for a Bad
Company concert sans Paul Rodgers is not a big deal. Being late for a Bad
Company concert sans Paul Rodgers when the opening act is Damn Yankees
with Ted Nugent is completely, and utterly, unforgivable. Particularly if you
are in your twenties and have been a 'Nuge' fan since you were eight.
Being late exacerbated
by being lost. Not completely lost, just being on the corner
of Peachtree and Peachtree in Atlanta, which does not narrow it down
in any way, shape, or form. It might also not have been helped by the fact that
I had somehow fit six grown (physically, if not emotionally) adults in a Yugo.
When one is such a situation it is highly encouraged that you keep an eye out
for obstructions in the road that a car that is rather low in the first place,
let alone weighed down, may not be able to clear. I, however, was too busy
looking for the Fulton County Civic Center. Therefore, I did not notice
that the intersection had not yet received is final layer of asphalt. Nor did
it cross my mind that the man hole cover in the middle of said intersection was
at least twelve inches higher than the paved surface that my tiny 20 inch
tires were riding on. So I was utterly surprised, as was the girl riding
shotgun, when the stick shift flew out of fourth gear and
slammed into her leg like rubber mallet on a baked sweet potato. But,
alas, before anyone could react to this sudden anomaly, our eardrums were
suddenly engulfed with the brain pulsing sound of a 1.1 liter engine that has
just lost it's exhaust system on a road named after a fruit bush.
That's when I saw it.
The Fulton County Civic Center in all of its faded brown post disco glory. My
brother Rick reached up from the back seat (at 6'3 stuffed into the backseat of
a Yugo, he didn't have to reach far) and grabbed my by right shoulder,
"PULL OVER, NOW! THERE, RIGHT THERE, NOW!!". While I was admiring the
wonderfully unimpressive architecture of tonight's venue, Rick was taking
charge in a crisis situation and had spotted a parking space in an abandoned
lot.
It was amazing how
wonderful it felt once I turned off the ignition and the lack of un-muffled
thunder ripping through my brain settled upon me. I sat there soaking up
the silence until it was overtaken by moans from the excuse for a backseat
where my passengers were begging for relief from the hatchback of doom. Those
weren't the only moans either. My co-pilot already had a really impressive
bruise coming up on her left thigh and I swear I could see an image of the gear
diagram starting to appear on her skin like a jailhouse tattoo.
We all piled out and
created a pretty sad semi-circle staring at this pathetic, and now crippled,
eastern block version of a vehicle wondering how it was ever going to get
us the hour and fifteen minutes back to suburbia. All of us, that is, except
for Capn' Rick. My brother looked entranced, as if the situation had sent an
abnormal amount of adrenaline through his veins and it was somehow shooting
from his eye sockets in the form of white hot determination.
He took one quick
glance at our sad droopy faces, pulled his sweater over his head, and
immediately crawled underneath the car. Knowing little about actual real life
car repair, but knowing that I knew a hell of a lot more than Rick, I bent over
and was mesmerized by what he did next. Taking his wool sweater under the car
he used it to tie the now hanging exhaust pipe to the frame of the car. Now, in
theory, the car could make it down the road, albeit rather loudly, and return
it's bundle of rock fans back to the land of strip malls and water towers.
Rising, practically
floating, up from underneath the car Rick turned and smiled at his slack jawed
audience. A wry smile formed and called me over. "Come here little
brother." I looked at the rest of the sad-sack crew, hesitated, looked
back at Rick, and then silently walked towards this now glowing specimen of raw
enthusiasm.
"Tell me lil'
bro. Can you do this?" And in an instance his hulking frame spun in the
air with the grace of a helipad windsock. His blue jeaned leg rising up,
then clear over my head, his shoe forcing cool evening air to
rush by my ear lobes providing unexpected relief to my still throbbing drums.
His spin concluded with a flourish that would have made Bruce Lee's dad
proud.
Having just witnessed
a freak of nature, an isolated bend in the universal continuum, I did the only
thing that could be done. I accepted the challenge.
Twisting my body in a
lighting quick rotation my legs feeling light and powerful I swung my right
foot high into the air as gently as a dishcloth on a butcher knife. My boot
climbing effortlessly against the star filled backdrop of a fall Georgia
evening and solidly connecting with the left side of my brother's head. My
follow through was immaculate, taking his entire torso quicker than the legs
could follow causing a Gumby like bend that resulted in his feet snapping in
the air at the last second and remaining airborne long after his skull had
struck the pavement.
The slack jawed crowd
sucked a collective gasp. These people were from the inner sanctum. They had
witnessed our sibling death matches for years. More than anyone who walked the
earth these four people knew the extreme peril I now faced. My brother, Rick B.
had a legendary temper on a good day. This was not going to be a good
day.
As the crew drew their
last suck of spit Rick remained silent. Then, as quickly as he had gone down,
he somehow rose to a standing position. Then bouncing from side to side like an
Olympic boxer he did the most terrifying thing that I could have imagined at
that point. He smiled.
Then the bouncing
stopped, his glove less boxing grips loosened, and his hands rose to his sides
in mysteriously inquisitive gesture of peace. "Well,....I asked him,
didn't I?"
The crew started to
breath again. I, on the other hand, waited a bit longer before
restarting my own respiratory functions. He wasn't going to kill me.
Heck, he was impressed that I got my foot as high as I did.
"Let's go see the
Nuge!"
Arm in arm in arm in arm
in arm in arm, we headed towards the main event, confident that our
transportational issues could easily be resolved once the orchestral portion of
the evening had concluded. Heading for the turnstiles we reviled in our
durability and basked in the anticipation of the show before us.
That's
when things really started to get interesting............
UTG: XV -
The Awakening
(there is a place beyond desperation, just this side of hopelessness. a
place where fear reigns and confidence is but a whimsy. this is where biceps
are found to be useless and the heart becomes the most important muscle in your
arsenal. years upon years of building emotional endurance has lead to this
moment. it gets to a point that sweat on the brow ceases to sting the eyes and instead
becomes a bitter nourishment as it mixes with tears on its way to your parched,
cracked lips. you have arrived at the end of your proverbial rope. luckily,
fate and faith have tied a big enough knot on the end for you to wrap your
bloody knuckles around. you have arrived. time for the real work to begin. - b2)
Its been days since I
had any sense of my senses. My only concept of time comes from the pickup of
the dumpster I've been sleeping behind. Family legend states that my
grandfather was offered the first franchise for 'Dempster-Dumpsters' in
Memphis, Tennessee in the fifties. He apparently turned it down, not wanting to
deal with the stigma of being a 'trashman' during the Golden Age of Couture.
Something tells me that even if he had made the millions he missed out on I
would still have ended up here, looking like Grizzly Adams after a bender,
smelling like the grease trap behind the BK Lounge.
"I sure as hell
ain't in Kansas anymore", the sounds coming from my mouth seeming so
foreign that I almost jump at hearing my own voice. It's been three dumpster
pickups since I've spoken to anyone. And even that was a brief, yet rewarding,
conversation. Though I still thought that 'if I only had a brain' things would
be a bit smoother, I certainly didn't lack any courage. I know exactly what
made the Hotten-tot so hot.
It was the coldest
part of the night, just before the dew begins to settle on the grassy islands
of the mega store parking lot. The automatic sprinklers hadn't kicked in yet so
it must have been before five. I smelled his camel before I saw him. It's been
years since I dragged on anything beyond a discarded butt, yet I could still
sniff out a cigarette brand from thirty yards out. When he caught site of me
I'm sure he thought I was looking to bum a smoke. I was more interested in the
high pressure hot water hose that he was using to the spray down the rubber
floor mats. Following a dialogue that was equally uncomfortable for both of us
he agreed to hosing me down behind the grease trap. But not before he had a
chance to walk the entire perimeter twice to make sure the opening manager
hadn't decided to roll in early to check in on him. In hindsight there might
have been a better place to get 'clean' than standing in a half inch of scalded
animal fat.
But that first shower
was purely for morale purposes. And what a morale booster it was. Even my
tattered rags felt better after that experience. I almost asked for that smoke,
but wanted to save my next favor for something more worthwhile. And the time
for that favor has come.
It was now time for a
shower, but this one had more pervasive motives attached. And therefore
required a little more planning. The bar of hotel soap had been fairly easy to
obtain. Obtaining the child safety scissors, however, was an adventure in
itself. Not only did I have to collect beer bottles for two dumpster pickups
(fyi - there is no end to the supply of long neck PBR bottles that magically
appear each afternoon under the picnic table where the airport taxi drivers
take their lunch break), but then I had to convince a shopping center patron to
serve as my proxy inside the chain drug store that had forbid my entrap' due to
the hideous appearance that had become my daily existence.
I got the immediate
impression that my friend the night porter had been planning my return, almost
as meticulously as I had. His cargo van was conveniently parked in the
drive-thru lane just across the grassy-know island from the squawker box fast
food menu. This provided a perfect privacy cover that enabled me to relish the
decadency of my shower without having to worry about slipping on fry grease or
ending up stinking like burnt oil. After using the convex security mirror to
shave and cut my hair (the safety scissors proving to be worth every bit of the
humiliation involved with 'begging' in front of apothecary shop) my porter
friend of few words offered to give me one last head rinse before offering to
share a celebratory camel with his fresh, clean benefactor. As I savored the
last drag before burning the filter he reached into the back of the van and
returned quickly with a paper sack.
"You need to go!”
he said tersely, now avoiding eye contact. Had I done something wrong? Was I
not supposed to take the last drag of the shared 'cig? He shoved the bag into
my chest and once again barked, "You need to go!”
I grabbed the bagged
thrust upon me and staggered off, grabbing my safety scissors leaving the
miniature bar of Dove lying in now steaming fescue. My filthy clothes now felt
hot and sticky against my damp, clean skin. Each step bringing the all too
familiar sting of blatant rejection. I was half way back to my dumpster of
solitude before I realized that I was still gripping the brown paper bag.
Stopping under the flickering glow of a humming Coke machine I peek inside the
Jethro lunch box. Not quite sure how to take in the visual before me my hands
sought to grasp the reality within. A faded red Jack-shirt, grey carpenter's
jeans, and a pair of broken in Adidas. My porter friend had prepared the
ultimate care package and was too humble to allow himself to view the joy I was
now experiencing.
The paper bag, now
damp and containing the thread bare garments of my 'past life' was carefully
deposited in the charity bin parked on the far edge of the white marked
landscape that had become my world. I could leave now. Not far, but far enough.
It was time to face my fate. It was time to tackle the consequences. It was
time to put it all 'out there'.
I would be re-entering
the world of the faces for the first time in months. The place where you have
to carry yourself as if gravity has no effect on your being. Where you have to
pretend that you have your act together. Where one is rewarded by how little
they let their true feelings show. Yes, I was heading right back into the
lion's den. But this time would be different. This time I would be better
equipped. This time I knew the truth. This time I would be wearing red.
And this time, I would
do it without 'the voice' second guessing every decision I made.
But first, I needed
work.
UTG: XVI - '..leave your message after
the beep....'
"You have reached
John B, or at least you have tried to. I can come to phone right now, but I
choose not to. For you see, phones do not fit into my idea of a simplified
life. Unless, of course, it involves a brick oven pizza. If you know
where I live, please feel free to drop by. You will most likely find me on the
back porch writing, or in the shed pretending to be a carpenter. If you don't
know where I live, there is a reason for that. Have a great day." " The
person you are trying to reach has a voicemail box that is full and not
accepting messages."
Simplified life.
That's my current quest. It's been almost three years since I was on the
street. I still have the pair of Adidas I got from the porter after my last
parking lot h shower. Wear them from time to time in an attempt to keep myself
grounded. Some say that tragic events give you perspective. For some quirky
reason I've always resented that remark. I prefer to believe they just give you
a deeper realization, and appreciation, that we are all only a half step away
from being homeless and alone. Not really sure which of these is worse. Being
alone or being homeless. Just know that being both simultaneously is a partial
vacuum of the mouth (translation: it sucks). Having once owned a home
empty of voices or other people's stuff I can attest that it is a painfully
lonely experience, but it still beats any underpass that has been graced by my
presence (translation: it sucks less). Then there is the
romantic notion that 'as long as we have each other' we can live without stuff.
All fine an dandy, IF you have someone, and IF that you can put up with each
other's bullshit while trying to tolerate your own stench.
That's a lot of IFs.
One of the words that my therapist has taught me to pay more attention to. The
other is SHOULD. As in 'it should not have taken me so long to wake up'
or 'I should have more to show for my life', and let's not forget the
perennial favorite 'I should be able to pull my self by the bootstraps
and get over what ever it is that's still bothering me'. She hasn't told me
that I can't use these words. Just that I should be more aware of them,
how I often I use them, and why it is that I feel that I have to live up to some
imagined expectations from no one in particular. As IF.
Sometimes, when the
sun is but a soft orange glow behind the next hilltop, I stand on the far side
of the lawn and look back on the side of the cabin I now call home. As the
sharp mountain breeze agitates the pines I wonder IF I will ever feel like I am
really here. They all tell that it 'takes time'. But I still think it SHOULD
have all sunk in by now.
Guess I still have a
lot to learn.
You're telling
me!
Guess I SHOULD also
tell my therapist that 'the voice' is back.
As IF!
Afterword
You have just been privy to a heaping
helping of literary junk food in the form of the serial anthology known as
'UNDER THE GUN'. All text, photographs, and embroidery is original, un-bleached,
and contains no trans-fats. There was no editing prior to the original public
dissemination, and no mental health professionals were hurt during filming. Any
and all ideas, opinions, or phony baloney contained in this blog are the
responsibility of the author and do not represent the opinions of this station
or anyone else with half a mind. Participants are encouraged to read all safety
warnings, keep their arms and legs inside the train at all times, and keep
their diaper helmets firmly in place. so sit back, relax, and leave the pontification
to us. - b2
I truly appreciate you making the time to read
my work. Please take a moment to leave a
comment at the site from which you downloaded IT. This Episode is cheep; so while you may have chosen to throw me a few bucks, feedback
is priceless!
When you are ready to learn out more about the
pontificator at large, or the eclectic collection of musings known as b2
publishing, visit us on tha' Book-
Or drop me a note:
‘dream big, act swiftly…’ – b2
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