What's Purgatory Like? (excerpt from "0")

What is Purgatory Like? It’s like being in an unemployment line waiting for your number. Yea, waiting. And once you get your number you get to talk to “the Man”. “The Man” or perhaps you could consider the man being “God”. “The Man” (counselor) gives you a choice. But with the value of the dollar changing, one doesn’t have many options. Thus, the changing of the value of the dollar changes the value of the person. Ha! “In God We Trust”.

“Number 67.” The speaker system calls out. “Damn I wish I had a cigarette.” I mumble to myself. “Yea, you ain’t lying.” The 20 something year old in front of me said as he turned around. “But ya’ know if we get out of line we’ll lose our place.”

Yea-smoking cigarettes adheres to the sin of sloth. Or at least, literally, killing time. and uh’ as I looked in his eyes (halls to his mind) I saw a struggle much like mine. Something went wrong a long time ago. His girl talked to another man and…

instantly, he assumed she would cheat on him. Why? Because earlier that day she spoke of a memory she had of her ex. When she did he felt his stomach knot up. Just like he felt years ago when that “Love you Forever” left him for another man. The crushing blow was when he saw the two of them dancing at his favorite bar. He was doomed to always be heart broken. The evidence was real. False evidence appearing Real. Faith and trust he chose not. The knots in his stomach were like the ones created from roller coaster rides. “SHE LOVES ME. SHE LOVES ME NOT.”

And I, he invested so much time and energy in making up for the mistakes he made for the last one. Became totally obsessed with her that he, we, lost ourselves. Splintering the thought was “But I Wanted That Job.” A disgruntled 50 year old man declared. “TO HELL WITH THIS!” he stampeded away mumbling underneath his breath. I smelled the alcohol leaving his pores as he walked away. A college graduate had beaten him out of the job. “Well, at least that’ll get us closer.”

…but she’s further away.

…and uh

She’s talking to her ex on the phone …and uh I’m wondering “Why?” …and uh I wanna’ scorn her about it. …and uh It’s a sign that she still wants him and will undoubtedly replace me: F.E.A.R. …but if I do she’ll think I don’t trust her. Then that’ll plant a seed of self-destruction in our (L.o.v.e. Life’s overwhelming vicious emotions) or (Life of victorious emotions). …so I uh, walk outside to smoke a cigarette. …chain smoking in front of her house waiting on her. …and as I inhale faster and faster I’m seeing the burning cherry go. I stomp the cigarette out and wondering where those big hugs and passionate kisses went when she would see me. Wondering where did that part of saying “I love You” with such sincerity went. I just knew it was real this time. Life’s overwhelming vicious emotions-that it would not fade away. Was it something I did? Then I look for every way to do things better cause I am afraid of being left. And then when all those wonderful things… And then I’m thinking “When do I start getting back the compassion that I gave her?” Then I get mad and play the What have you done for me lately game. Then we get into the Let’s be friends game. That is the game where I start begging and pleading “please don’t leave me. I’ll change.” Then she’s like “GET OUT.” But all along the while I’m hating myself. Then I stop doing the things that I enjoy. Things that made me who I am. Next comes the I truly don’t know who I am part. Therefore, FREAK OUT MODE ENGAGED: call her 50 times a day, beg and plead-check for e-mails, send her e-mails, buy her gifts-“I miss you.” “I can’t live with out you.” She can’t tell me that she misses me because that’ll be a move where she loses control. Even more so, I am acting crazy, and that’s scaring her. And I just want us to be together again-but first it seems like we just have “to be.” ________________________________________________________________________

I miss you

Ordered one at the bar. Yea, I see the phases (faces). People wear their lives on their faces. Especially, when they wear their hearts on their sleeves. Here I am again broken hearted. With that feeling that a big part of me is missing. I stare into the 12 ounces of black liquid void. Then I stare at my brethren of the broken hearted. The guy over their taking shots of tequila (ta’kill’ya’) chasing it with beer. He’s celebrating with his buds. Their crew cuts give away their identity of being military service members checking out us po’ folks in Mississippi. All of em’ got wrinkles on their fore heads from wearing Kevlar. There’s a guy talking to the female bartender. She’s taken on the role of “the girl who listens.” And the more he gives her money the drunker he gets. Reminds me of the “juicy girls” in Korea. Yea, you buy the both of you drinks and she starts fondling you. Getting more money as the “juicy girl” continues to drink, with out the soldier knowing, she’s drinking tea. There’s the hard working man. He’s probly’ a roofer. He’s got wrinkles around his eyes in the shape of bird feet. Yea, he’s the “I deserve this drink cuzz’ I busted my ass for hours nonstop.” He’s probably got some wife and kids. Either she’s bitching about him not doing enough, or she’s patiently waiting on him. By the way he’s slamming his Paps Blue Ribbon, I’d go with the first choice. And I’m once again staring at my 12 ounce cup of void. What’s Purgatory like?

The Unemployment Line: “Hey man, you feel like a drink?” “Naw, I been that route before.” “Well, this is stressing me out.” he declares like he’s a pressure car salesman. Yea, drunks claim to be self-sufficient with their tales of grandiosity. Yet, they’re quick to trap their company with tales of self-pity. “Be patient. Ten people have already been served.” Ten minutes later, five youths walk away declaring “I AIN’T WORKING AT WASTE MANAGEMENT.” “FORGET THIS, IMMA’ GET A DRINK.”

I turn my head, interrupted by someone’s tall tales of fame. Yea, his hair is greasy, eyes are yellow and red, face looks like plastic. He’s talking about the people he’s seen, played with, crowds. He even spits out some of his lyrics. And the good ol’ boys goad him on and fuel his delusion with enough booze to kill a small animal “Yea man that’s the best Goddamn song I ever heard.” “Yea man bet ya’ got laid a lot for that one.” and so on and so on. Yep, Mr. Johnson at the crossroads, this is what happens to musicians who sell their souls. I look at my 12 ounce cup of void. I can drink this cuzz’ I ain’t like these losers right? Then I hear the lovely couple whispering sweet vows of love in one another’s ears over and over again. They are dancing to a Randy Travis song on the juke box. Funny how my hearing becomes supersensitive when I’m wanting liquid spirits.

SO WATCHA’ GONNA’ DO NOW?

Spend $30. to $50. dollars a month on online dating sites to get chicks that live on the other side of the country (the world)? You know 1 out of every 8 relationships today started off from online. Yea, and for the past decade or more there has been a 50% chance of divorce with marriage.

The Unemployment Line:

Post Katrina mid 2006: When I finally got my chance to see the job counselor Country music was playing on the loud speaker. It was Johnny Paycheck’s “Take this job and shove it”. … “I ain’t working here no more.” There has gotta’ be something subconscious going on here. Like, the irony of “job” spelled the same way as the Biblical book’s “Job.” She was in her twenties, had on a business suit dress thang. Had a triangular shaped desk. On one side was her desk she sat behind her desktop computer. On the long side I sat behind with brochures there that provided distractional hope: join the Army, job corps, school grants, McDonalds, Waste Management, Resume help… & blah, blah, blah. “Hello, Mr. Holmes. My name is Clara. From looking at our system we have two jobs perfect for you. One is cleaning the Coast Coliseum, and the other is working for Waste Management.” Damn her. She probly’ got her job with help from her rich daddy. So this is how it ends. This is all I get with years of not drinking and drugging, six years in the Army picking up dead bodies, and a Bachelor’s degree in Science? This is all I deserve to be? In the same place I was before joining the Army? Working around folks who work for just enough money so they can buy a bottle of cheap wine, or a rock of cain? “Mr. Holmes.” “Mr. Holmes?”