Evening
I dressed up, brooding. To say the circumstances which lead me to this night-out were stressful is an understatement. Cheerless was the tie I wore. Grief lined the the brim of my fedora. The manner in which I dressed myself was deliberate and aching. The mirror saw sullen movements of buttons buttoned, cuffs straightened, and a collar made proper. It looked like I was heading to a funeral. At the wake was my dignity in a paltry coffin, matching a life lived in inadequacies - added, multiplied, to the umpteenth power. No kind words marked this passing. No good memory manifested and stood forth. For it was I alone at the sorrow ceremony of this post-sun hour.
I stepped outside the door, neither sneaking or flaunting my exit. The night was cold so a coat was brought along and tossed onto the front passenger seat of the BMW. I started up the engine with the "vroom!" signaling the beginning of what I hoped would be better times. I headed out towards where people would be. The Eastridge Mall. In both the state of closing and closed, I arrived much too late. Remnants of the pretty girls who had walked there just hours ago took form now as empty benches and car park spaces. I saw one pony-tailed beaut enter her Honda and drive away, never to be seen again - such is my typical association with woman. That bare one would have to do to hold me out for the night. Drawn metal gates and "Closed" signs commingled rather well with the silence in that wide open space. Hunch-shouldered customers with dreary faces made their relieved final purchases. Two aunt-looking woman sat by their coffee, conversing in what was bought and what could have been bought. Hooligans clad in black street-wear continued their toughwalk, albeit with a little less swagger; even for troublemakers, it was too late. Not wanting to be the victimized fedora'd fool jumped by desperate wannabe gangsters, I made my way out soon after seeing them. What little I did see there did help. To see faces apart from the ones I despised was like being fed ice cream after eating shit all day.
Music played throughout the night drive. What first went up was some Placebo. I only recently discovered them and have grown fond of their sound and aesthetic. It takes juevos to stand out as a nancy boy. People like David Bowie and Brian Molko have shown great Rock n'Roll need not be limited to in-your-face assholes. That dude wearing the make-up might just surprise you. But I digress. I find it hard to drive without music playing. The monotony of the pedal/wheel hustle can only be tolerated with the familiarity of a song I enjoy. As the night went on, from the mall to elsewhere, I switched over to a reliable playlist titled Lepcke. With that I rolled off onto 101 and exited out into the Capitol Expessway.
I'm familiar with this road. And what destination lies at the other side of it - The Capitol Drive-In. There are days in the week where the grounds of the drive-in gets used for a flea market. Often I have gone in the morning to walk and peek at the wares laid out on blankets and portable tables, the car-trunk sellers eager to get rid of what they no longer want in return for money much wanted. Even if you don't buy anything, the walk in the sunrise chill is nice. All the while, "towering behemoths" a.k.a. "drive-in screens" watch over the locals, guarding their right to sell something over or under-priced, depending on who you are. Those screens always did fascinate me. To see them at night would be grand. So that's where I found myself, with stars out and the sunless cold definitely set in place.
The drive-in sits on the side of an overpass. Knowing this, as I drove over, I immediately looked through my right window. I didn't want suspense. I kicked that shit right out. I wanted to see massive screens lit up. And they were. And they were magnificent. Joy tipped me on my shoulder. I couldn't grasp it but I felt it there. Concrete misery went liquid, still existing but less hindering. I could enjoy something now, however faint. "If you have the money" murmured in my mind as I rolled the BMW into the parking lot. I didn't have the money to watch the movies that shined on the screens in front of me but I was there and was convinced it was better than from whence I came. I parked in a very dark area on the farside of the lot, away from the popcorn and dialogue. There was an entryway as a point of payment and I didn't get anywhere near that. I had no speaker to transmit what was said onscreen. Silence and the stars was what I had. The sunroof was open. I looked up and it framed the dipper constellation perfectly. Which one? I didn't know. I smirked.
The surrounding area was a bit creepy. The trees that stood behind me stood as if held there with guns to their heads. It was their job to block the view of would-be watchers from the other parking lot which hosted your run-of-the-mill indoor movie theater. That area was well lit. You couldn't say the same for where I sat. The few streetlights on the farside spilled a filthy yellow onto barren spots edging the lot where there was absolutely nothing of interest. Everything else that was dark didn't fare any better. In the quiet I sat as other cars, leaving or arriving, roamed around. Their headlights cut through the evening air like menacing swords of light. Occasionally they would glare through my car windows, piercing through, threatening to reveal my drive-in bum status. My paranoia was active, indeed, especially at those moments.
It was cold. I grabbed the coat on the passenger side and turned it into a makeshift blanket. The screens directly in front of me played Brooklyn's Finest and She's Out of My League. Progressively out of view were Alice in Wonderland, Remember Me and Green Zone, which was blocked by a graffittied U-Haul truck. Matt Damon's noggin' kept popping out the side with a rifle in his hand. There were also two other screens which I just couldn't see. She's Out of My League was a movie of personal interest. Simply put, losers don't get girls. Hot ones sit beside never. Movies are but fantasies and oh loser I didn't mind having that flash in silence before me. As a fan of Training Day, I watched Brooklyn's Finest astutely. People's lips moved. They were in a city. There was a little police brutality too, I think. One scene between Don Cheadle and Wesley Snipes was particularly interesting. The setting was an urban riverside. Snipes looked very serious and told Cheadle how goddamn good a Snickers candy bar is. Cheadle did not agree and said the Mars bar was pretty damn good but was only sold in England. Then one of them mentioned Butterfingers but it was struck down because the orange bits stick to your molars. That scene between them went on for a good 8 minutes. Strange . At least that's what I heard.
I don't don't know how long I was out there. I minimized movement and kept the lights down to keep away from suspicion. My seat was reclined. From there I could easily see how people get their rocks off whether in the backseat or somewhere upfront. There's plenty of space for whatever sweaty mess people like to get into. Not long after the Snickers scene ended, a black, lifted pick-up truck was creeping in the vast darkness behind me. Its headlights were off and slowly it went along until . . . it stopped behind the BMW. Shit. Situated just off to the right, I positioned the side-view mirror to try to get a glimpse of who was inside. No luck. More empty then the shadows on this lot, nothing was more devoid of light than that truck cabin. Why did it decide to place itself there? Paranoia, paranoia. It might be security, I thought. Who needs a nightstick when your truck can run over cars? Maybe it's a serial killer - an unbalanced fiend who comes out to the empty lot to eat the eyes of Hollywood watching, Hamilton-less people.
I drove out of there. I like my eyes. I was 7 Washingtons short of $10 but even if I did have it, Enter text here.Mr. Empty Cabin over there would not have accepted it and I wouldn't need my glasses anymore.
The dipper no longer sat over my open roof. I drove onto Old Monterey road. There is a pizza place there, a local joint that sits across and can be seen from the drive-in. It always looks so inviting and for years now I've been telling myself I'll go have a slice. As I passed by it I thought of it fondly. Insecurity peekabooed and pinched me on the face.
"No money, idiot."
Ow.
"You're fat, ugly and should not be seen."
Ugh.
"There will be strangers there."
Awe shoot.
On my way back I passed by 2, maybe 3 fire stations. Why is that significant? I'm someone who gets familiar with areas by use of landmarks. They say that's a feminine trait. Burly dudes use street names as reference points, not the McDonalds that sits beside it. There were familiar roads. There were unfamiliar roads. As long as I headed east I knew I would be fine. I kept driving, first onto Tully, then South King and finally McKee. I fully intended to take the long way back to fight off the possibility of seeing his face still there with his borrowed bicycle sitting on the porch. Do you know how a man who can't stand on his own two feet gets by? On two wheels biking from family home to family home, avoiding his very own.
I returned to the house at 613 in dread. Each stop light bit, ripped and tore away the mirth that struggled so wretchedly to get back to me. The driveway was empty. So was the porch. I went into the house and upstairs into my room. I untied the cheerless. I took grief off of my mind but when I searched for sleep with my head on the pillow, I was exhausted, mentally drained by the day's troubles of duck and dollars. Guilt clashed with self-worth. Bad things happened and I played a part in it. Who the hell was I to do anything or feel anything? My miscarriage of a life was my own. I closed my eyes.
A gun.
A knife.
A rope.
These are methods for goodbye.
I was positively suicidal. This wasn't the first time.
