I bend myself back into reality as the ebb of my past tugs at my knees, shins, ankles, and away. I can practically feel the salt on my lips, the seabreeze on my face and the sand between my toes as the memory tsunami pulls back into the ocean.

Then I'm shoved ahead by the throngs trying to cross the street. A mass of corporate assholes so involved in their own career paths that they wouldn't even recognize their own suite-mate if they shouldered them out of the way in the crosswalk. God, I hate the city; but it's the only place I can be myself without having to 'fess up to being myself. My shoes are getting scuffed now, as I'm frog-marched across the street by an army of salesmen, brokers, traders, and other human diseases.

I'm practically shoved into the pretzel cart on the opposing corner as a tide of business people rush past. Literally, I can hardly move amongst the force of the several hundred brushed wool trench coats and Totes umbrellas that whisk past me.

I begin to suffocate. I'm going to be trampled to death here on this pretzel cart. I fold over and my chest presses against the corrugated aluminum surface as the pretzeleer(?) runs to escape the swelling rush-hour storm surge of Wall Street dicks making their Friday escape. The reek of steamed pork leavings fills my nostrils as my face is shoved into the piping hot water of the chafing dish that holds the weiners. Both hands grapple frantically for leverage but only find themselves in condiment trays or against the slick aluminum of the cart.

I'm drowning in the most disgusting sea of processed meat and sauerkraut one could imagine. It burns. And as much as I try, I can do nothing to improve the situation.

My lungs begin to burn, I can hardly feel my hands.

I'm passing out.

Posted by: shank at 11:04 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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I leave the bar and, stepping into the tea-colored cascade of evening sunlight that's spilling over the highrises across the street, adjust my sunglasses and begin walking the block south. I notice how my neatly polished shoes seem to leave ripples in the cracked and creased concrete sidewalk upon which they tread. Shiny black, almost wet-looking, breaking up the hard textured surface of the grey sidewalk. The more I concentrate on them, the more I fall into myself. It's happening; the memory tsunami.
---
I'm 13 years old again; full of energy and ready to expend it all as quick as possible. Surrounded by tall pines and a gently glowing fire, Luke asks me if I want to "Be a part of the group, man!" Yeah, hell yeah; I nod and follow him into the dark beyond the shed. Just as I pass the shadow cast by the structure I'm set upon by fists, kneecaps, and elbows that seemed to spring from the darkness itself. An unidentifiable force pushes me into the dampening grass, and I feel the weight of several people on my chest as punches and boot heels rain down on my shoulders, back, and buttocks. Then silence.

I lay for a second, just trying to put myself in a place where I can sleep through whatever comes next. Then Gary thrusts an open palm in mine "Get up dude, you're in!" I'm confused, In? In what? I brush off the pine needles and grass stuck to my shirt and jeans. Luke and the guys are standing around, smiling, laughing; Hahahaha, you did good man. You're in!

Heh. Yeah, cool. Sup fellas, yeah.

Alright dude, now it's your turn.

"My turn?"

Yeah, you have to go find someone now. Bring 'em back.

I'm not proud that it didn't occur to me that I'd been almost instantly co-opted by greed. I was happy to be part of the power elite. Who wouldn't be right? Hell yeah I'll go get someone. We'll jump 'em in; and they'll get it too, just like I did. And they'll be grateful.

I picked the wrong kid.

My face contorts in regret as the tsunami tide rushes back out to sea and leaves a trail of scattered flash memories stacked on top of each other. These horrible things are left to roast in the harsh, noon sun that is hindsight. I drag myself out of the detritus that is my past and convince myself that 1994 doesn't exist anymore.

Posted by: shank at 07:07 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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I found myself sitting alone at the bar in a dimly lit dive off the alley between 41st and Washington. It was one of those places shoe-horned amongst taller, more modern buildings; and I got the distinct impression that there were sections of the place that hadn't seen sunlight since the Roosevelt administration. It must've been early evening, because the only light coming through the front windows was that odd orange color, and it fell at a steep enough angle that I could watch the cigarrette smoke twirl and billow in the air. I looked down at my empty highball glass, my hands, examined the bleach white cuffs, pressed and starchy, poking out underneath the grey herringbone wool of my jacket sleeves. My cologne was beginning to fade, and I could feel my skin abrsorbing the smells of the bar. Smoke, stale beer, spilled whiskey, that stagnant moist tinge that hangs in still places.

"Another?"

I'm reeled out of my daze by the bartender. "Mm-ph," I barely mumble with a nod of my head. She pulls the Dalwhinnie down off the shelf and pours me two thick fingers. Twenty-nine years of peat, spring water, and oak barrel aging begin wafting around me. I pick up the small, gently sweating pitcher of ice water to my right and tenderly introduce a few drops, watching the alcohol and water dance around each other in the highball glass. Raising the drink to my lips, I savor the experience with my eyes closed as layer after layer washes over me. Mmm, quittin' time never tasted so good.

I spend about thirty minutes sitting in this empty dark dugout that passes for a bar, taking in the tired parade of commuters walking, riding, driving or biking down the street outside. The regular sounds of city transit buses push through the front wall of the bar in a muffled cadence, the occasional frustrated peal of a car horn, fragments of conversations held waiting for the 'WALK' light; and keeping time for them all is the rhythmic chorus of a homeless man begging for change.

Silently, my mind wanders. Seeing, hearing, wondering; but never interacting. Simply absorbing and coallating, organizing these shards of the human experience in an effort to...to do who knows what. Make a collage I guess. I swallow the last stringent dram from my glass, fish a few spare dollars from my coat pocket and place them on the bar. It's time to get going.

Posted by: shank at 04:32 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 413 words, total size 2 kb.