A Faraway Smile

My head bobs, my eyes close.

A song blares in my headsets. I pop up, blinking. You know what this is? It's time for me to take my ass to bed. I reach for my mouse, my eyes drooping, raising a wide yawn. There is a POP in my ears. I look at the screen. A close friend of mine has just popped up on IM. Oh shit. Blurry eyed, I hit the keyboard to greet them. Yeah, wassup? They want to talk. Shit's gone South. And then they hop right into it. I settle down, stare at the screen until I jump awake. My head had been on my chest. Let's try this shit again. I focus hard on the screen, catch up with the text, reply that I understood, and then started dozing off again. My batteries are completely spent. Nothing is keeping me up. Make another cup of coffee? Nope. I've reached my maximum amount of calories already.

It's time for me to call it quits. I let my friend know that I'm knocking it off. They mention that it's because their problems are so petty that they are putting me to sleep. No, that's not the case at all. I'm beat. There's no staying up. I'd only be a fraud if I went to sleep and gave the impression that I was on the other side. So, goodnight for now. I close down and crawl into bed, wondering what kind of dream I'll invest in overnight.

I invest in nothing. There are no dreams worth remembering.

I awake and I'm completely cognizant of my toe. It pangs, letting me know that I am not to fuck around with it. Damn. How great it would have been to have had that COLCHICINE. I look at the clock. It's Four Thirty. I get up and take a piss and two TYLENOL, and crawl right back into bed. No dreams.

I wake up at 7:30 and do my sit-ups. I turn on my laptop, make coffee and then crank out my push-ups, on one foot. Then my side bridge, which by the way, is getting easier to do. I have a big day today. I have to go to Brooklyn and do an interview. I just hope that I can have a beltfull of COCHICINE in my system when I do it. But there is a downside of that. The fucking shits. Why is it that whatever it is that I need, it comes with a fucking catch? Can you tell me that? I need a pill for the pain behind my knee and in my foot...BUT it has to give me the roaring shits. What kind of shit is that???

I shake my head to that. I need to get my digital camera soon with a windfall that came my way. My mother sending me some cash. Wow, that's great. Here I am at 46 and still needing a stipend from my mother to live on. Wastrel, good for nothing man that I am. Well, I see it this way. Whenever things pick up, I'll pay her back in spades. That goes for everyone that's helped me though this. This...this...what do I call 'this'. A transition? A life? This phase? Hmmm. A phase....a phase. ...those that have helped me through this phase of my life.

I think about it. Since I've gotten his post, I have been jumping over to the Essential Mr. Bill blogsite and reading about his travails. I remember when I was like that. When I had the cares of family and home. I remember when I watched my funds dry up. His stuggle has become interesting to me, along with his description of making spaghetti. I know he'll make it. I've got a good feeling about his predicament (that's probably why I can't stop going back to his blog from time to time). Besides, the incoming administration, who is cognizant of the plight of the working man sliding towards unemployment, will hopefully build a big enough, generous enough cushion for everyone to fall on until this financial crisis is over. The previous administration couldn't give a shit filled fuck. I had to lose my job then.

What did I tell you about whatever I need coming with a catch?

The transient life never killed me though. It was easy to slip into. It was all of these things. What hurt the most was my pride. And the fear. I don't want to gloss over the fear. But it's like getting an injection. You know THAT it's going to happen, and it IS going to happen, so WHEN it happens you just deal with it. Go over the hump, and you'll find yourself alive on the other side.

That's how it was with me. I was thinking about that when I read about a German tycoon, Adolf Merckle that had committed suicide when he lost everything. I read his story and my eyes almost popped out of my head. This guy was worth $40.45 BILLION. He had lost some hundreds of MILLIONS. I'm I counting this shit wrong here??? Doesn't that leave this guy with several BILLIONS of dollars left?? So what. You have to liquidate whole companies, you can still eat and keep the crib. You don't have to loose all of your possessions because you can't carry them on your back when you hit the bricks. AND YOU KILL YOURSELF?? Where's the balance in that?

Or how about Thierry Magon de la Villehuchet. This guy had a 150% leveraged position of $1.4 BILLION in Bernard Madoff's Ponzi Scheme. He knocked himself off big time, slitting his wrists and taking sleeping pills. He lost all of his wealth and THEN SOME. Incredible.

Kirk Stephenson, another one, throws himself in front of a speeding train, leaving behind a wife and an 8 year old son. This guy owned a 3.6 million dollar house in Chelsea for crissakes. This guy had a BILLION dollars in the bank. Sell the fucking house and move to the Bronx damnit.

Why do these guys think that life is so imperfect that they can't hit rock bottom. With their wealth and prestige and FRIENDS in high places, they'll just bounce back the fuck up again. They don't go splat like the rest of us. Look at Madoff, they can't even keep his fucking ass in jail, and this motherfucker is a FLIGHT RISK if I ever saw one. This country LOVES it's billionaires. They'll give you the key to the city! Or at least a key to the jail.

I'll probably never see a BILLION dollars in my life. I've lived A YEAR with THREE CENTS in my pocket. NO MORE than three cents. Even my mom refused to send me money, thinking that I was playing some sort of game or guzzling it all up in alcohol. So what if I was. Money that friends gave me was spent, the little I had was gone. Let these BILLIONAIRES try that on for size. I ain't killing myself. NO FUCKING WAY. How damn tragic is that?

UUUHHHH. I'm back on my social ladder soapbox again. I just want to say that there's always a rung higher, always a rung lower.

That is until you reach death. There's no lower rung than that folks.

Agree with me or not, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Hobobob