Addiction and Lies: How they effect us at work and at play.
dedicated to Tink who says that she still reads these
It didn’t help mine and my manager’s relationship much that I didn’t fall asleep until four in the morning only to over sleep three hours past clock-in time with a splitting headache from all that generic Nyquil shit I take to get to sleep these days. I’ve gotten used to the taste, like Jaeger, but there is much I prefer in its stead. Usually two to three shots and I’m out and shut of this world within thirty minutes. It just so happens that on this night I “accidentally” (meaning ignorant of, but not unconscious of the effects) drank too much coffee in the evening. The result was lifeless limbs, but a heart that could fuel a racing horse, and a very flimsy and vague state of sleep, but the dreams were vivid.
Somewhere that night I had been tapped by the uppers to assassinate the head vampire who hangs out in a discothèque located inside of a popular shopping mall. He bears a distinct resemblance to Ron Perlman, whom I loathe in real life. Except for Hellboy. And, yes, except for City of Lost Children. So I made it to the club and somehow manage myself through the doors and armed guards with a large sniper rifle unconcealed and in hand. I’m about to make my move when Elektra (Elektra from the comic book [which I’ve never read] not Elektra from the movie [which I did see, once]) shows up just in my peripheral at my immediate left. And I know the tasty bitch is here to kill me. No sooner does this thought cross my mind does a blade slide into my rib cage and pierce my lung. I stumble and fall over a railing onto the first level of the mall. With a drunkard’s bumbling luck I manage to not further harm myself, but I’m still dying and shock is well set in. My mission becomes confused; I’m supposed to fire this rifle, someone other than myself is supposed to die. In lost and idiot duty I fire at random persons in the mall. Every shot fired was a head shot. I took down several as the crowds panicked. Some people attempt to take me down from behind to unarm and subdue me. I still pull off a few successful shots before I’m incapacitated. This is when I wake up three hours late. I am comforted in my long morning leak with the thought that in a tight spot I’m probably pretty handy with a rifle. This makes me think that it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Red Dawn, and that makes me wonder what the name of that movie was with Chuck Norris where Russian terrorists were planning an attack on U.S. soil. I think Rutger Hauer was in it as the lead bad guy. Fuck, Blind Fury was an awesome movie. That’s the one where Rutger Hauer was this dude who lost his sight in some jungle war and was taken in by some villagers who taught him to be a blind samurai of sorts. You could throw a coconut at him and he’d slice it in half in mid air with a katana drawn from his walking cane. Have you seen it? All of this train of thought is just to avoid the inescapable. I’m going to have to explain my lateness, and somehow get my boss to agree to a three day leave of absence the following week.
On the way to the office I decide what is appropriate to say, how much I should leave out. I don’t imagine my humorless cunt of a boss would want an entire sob story. I imagined she would only want to hear how this affects my performance and company stats. This angers me. Everything about the woman unnerves me. She thinks she’s so hot with her boob job and corporate pony tail. She always smells like cigarette smoke and body spray. She has a little black in her gums like a dog, and large teeth. She had her stomach stapled; apparently she used to be fat, and eats only junk food. What infuriates me most is her ass. It’s the flattest, most unshapely thing I’ve ever seen; it’s so indicative of what she is: void and want of substance. I know and hate that just about every man in the office would be more than happy to fuck her. I’d fuck her, too, I guess. But I’d treat her like shit the whole time. Enough. I don’t want to think of that.
I show up, she’s walking around the floor helping someone find an errant wedding ring. When she sees me she sours an already soured face. Before she exposes her black gums and horse teeth to address me I say, “I need to speak to you.” And I pull her into an empty office. This move catches her off guard. I tell her I need her help. I hated saying this. I hated needing her good grace. I explain to her that I had just learned the day before that a family member was found dead. My 1st cousin. He had been an addict most of his adult life. My boss loosens and actually seems concerned. I don’t know why I’d assume someone would assume that one would lie about such things, but I wouldn’t put it past her to assume the worst in anyone that is as visibly unimpressed by her as I am. She’s just that kind of bitch, man. She actually and sincerely inquires about what’s going on. She was happy to arrange my schedule so that I could have the three days I needed off, which enabled me attend my cousin’s funeral.
My cousin’s sad tale is this: He was the youngest in a family whose would-be eldest was struck and killed by a truck at the age of three. My cousin was characterized in his childhood as the most fearless of us; the one whom it took little coaxing to try anything. He had always been in and out of petty troubles and scraps around the school yard a little more than you and I, perhaps, but nothing none of us didn’t get ourselves involved in at one time or another. Baseball seemed to have anchored his lawlessness in early high school. That is until sliding grades got him kicked off the team. Around this time he’d picked up chewing tobacco and drinking on weekends. He wound up in at least one fight a week; mostly spawned from cloudy disputes at teenage parties. Honestly, nothing out of the ordinary in that time, and in that town.
His parents divorced, marking where the dark turned darker in the young man, when his father was caught by a private investigator his mom had hired in the throws of love or something similar with another woman. I saw one of the photographs taken by the Seamus. My cousin’s father, my uncle, looked happy carrying this woman across a parking lot. I had always known the guy to be a surly ineffectual man.
My cousin found solace and a good shot at redemption in a young girl named Crystal, who I’ll name outright as the only true innocent in this tale and on whom no mortal judgment shall pass. Crystal was the good hearted sort, a devout Christian who could cross any line and befriend even the most wayward and unruly of characters that are usually avoided by church-going folk. She was even a friend of mine.
It is my understanding that their friendship was solid, that only she could control him when drunk or otherwise fucked up. And my cousin was someone who by even the toughest among and most willing among us could not be subdued. He was part Iron Mike and part Raging Bull. He may not have won every fight he was in, but took the best of anyone: friend or foe. Crystal was the only one whom he revered. He had tried to become more than friends with her on a few occasions, but was unable. She loved her friends; she loved her family and church. She loved homework and puppy dogs and that was all. He seemed to suffer no frustration over this, proving, to me anyway, that his affection was not born of teenage lust, but of some other force unknown to me as I had never before or since seen a lion and a Christian that did not fight. And so the lion slept beside the lamb. That is until the little lamb was knocked into oncoming traffic by the Hand of God at an intersection one day. Crystal, her own cousin, and baby sister were killed in a head on collision. Now she slumbers in pastures far from my cousin’s reach. Hereafter began the coke, and the steroids, the drinking, and the mugging.
I know of two trips to jail, and at least a couple court appointed stays in rehab. During some sober moment, and this is far past high school days, he had fallen in love with and married a cute little girl who bore more than a passing resemblance to Crystal in body and kindness. It should be said that for the most part my cousin was a functional addict. He maintained jobs and amongst family and most friends was congenial and very well humored. Though the steroids gave him an unnatural brawn he appeared as no monster. On his last go ‘round he must’ve put on quite a show for he had reached the limits of his Christian wife’s grace. She threatened to divorce him, finally. For the first time he checked himself into rehab, and from what I heard was doing great and all were proud. What happened between then and when his wife found his body I can not say. There was no note only the pills untaken.
Granted I didn’t give my boss such a narrative, but I was able to hit on all the points. My boss showed concern and even friendly affection. I was impressed. In addition to the change in next week’s schedule I needed she gave me the rest of the day off, which was great as I felt pretty spent. And, I must admit, that I felt unburdened in telling this seemingly unsympathetic wretch my tale of woe. It’s amazing what will pull us together in the end. I’m even smiling as I type this.
Later that evening I got a call from my best friend. Unlike Crystal my friend works to rile me up and I her. My friend had just had a fight with her live in boyfriend and was calling from a motel. Not a big deal; just the petty response to a petty ultimatum. Anyway she needed a distraction so I picked her up and went to an Indian restaurant. I told her I had a good uplifting story for her.
“Is that true?” she said.
“Most of it. Only my cousin isn’t dead; fully rehabbed and enjoying a sober married life last I heard.” I smiled at my friend, and she laughed.
“So, why such a dramatic story?” she queried. I explained I hadn’t intended on giving my boss the whole shebang, but her reception of it was so redeeming I just wanted to enjoy this moment of getting along with my supposed betters for once. And, besides, I had the story of my cousin written in a short-story I had shit canned, I thought I might let it see the light of day in some other form.
“What are you going to do with your three days off?” My friend asked. “I wanted to put in a serious start on my (now legendary unwritten…) book. And, I don’t know, find something I can dust off and use for my next blog since it’s about mid month and I’ve no idea what I’m going to write.”
Somewhere that night I had been tapped by the uppers to assassinate the head vampire who hangs out in a discothèque located inside of a popular shopping mall. He bears a distinct resemblance to Ron Perlman, whom I loathe in real life. Except for Hellboy. And, yes, except for City of Lost Children. So I made it to the club and somehow manage myself through the doors and armed guards with a large sniper rifle unconcealed and in hand. I’m about to make my move when Elektra (Elektra from the comic book [which I’ve never read] not Elektra from the movie [which I did see, once]) shows up just in my peripheral at my immediate left. And I know the tasty bitch is here to kill me. No sooner does this thought cross my mind does a blade slide into my rib cage and pierce my lung. I stumble and fall over a railing onto the first level of the mall. With a drunkard’s bumbling luck I manage to not further harm myself, but I’m still dying and shock is well set in. My mission becomes confused; I’m supposed to fire this rifle, someone other than myself is supposed to die. In lost and idiot duty I fire at random persons in the mall. Every shot fired was a head shot. I took down several as the crowds panicked. Some people attempt to take me down from behind to unarm and subdue me. I still pull off a few successful shots before I’m incapacitated. This is when I wake up three hours late. I am comforted in my long morning leak with the thought that in a tight spot I’m probably pretty handy with a rifle. This makes me think that it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Red Dawn, and that makes me wonder what the name of that movie was with Chuck Norris where Russian terrorists were planning an attack on U.S. soil. I think Rutger Hauer was in it as the lead bad guy. Fuck, Blind Fury was an awesome movie. That’s the one where Rutger Hauer was this dude who lost his sight in some jungle war and was taken in by some villagers who taught him to be a blind samurai of sorts. You could throw a coconut at him and he’d slice it in half in mid air with a katana drawn from his walking cane. Have you seen it? All of this train of thought is just to avoid the inescapable. I’m going to have to explain my lateness, and somehow get my boss to agree to a three day leave of absence the following week.
On the way to the office I decide what is appropriate to say, how much I should leave out. I don’t imagine my humorless cunt of a boss would want an entire sob story. I imagined she would only want to hear how this affects my performance and company stats. This angers me. Everything about the woman unnerves me. She thinks she’s so hot with her boob job and corporate pony tail. She always smells like cigarette smoke and body spray. She has a little black in her gums like a dog, and large teeth. She had her stomach stapled; apparently she used to be fat, and eats only junk food. What infuriates me most is her ass. It’s the flattest, most unshapely thing I’ve ever seen; it’s so indicative of what she is: void and want of substance. I know and hate that just about every man in the office would be more than happy to fuck her. I’d fuck her, too, I guess. But I’d treat her like shit the whole time. Enough. I don’t want to think of that.
I show up, she’s walking around the floor helping someone find an errant wedding ring. When she sees me she sours an already soured face. Before she exposes her black gums and horse teeth to address me I say, “I need to speak to you.” And I pull her into an empty office. This move catches her off guard. I tell her I need her help. I hated saying this. I hated needing her good grace. I explain to her that I had just learned the day before that a family member was found dead. My 1st cousin. He had been an addict most of his adult life. My boss loosens and actually seems concerned. I don’t know why I’d assume someone would assume that one would lie about such things, but I wouldn’t put it past her to assume the worst in anyone that is as visibly unimpressed by her as I am. She’s just that kind of bitch, man. She actually and sincerely inquires about what’s going on. She was happy to arrange my schedule so that I could have the three days I needed off, which enabled me attend my cousin’s funeral.
My cousin’s sad tale is this: He was the youngest in a family whose would-be eldest was struck and killed by a truck at the age of three. My cousin was characterized in his childhood as the most fearless of us; the one whom it took little coaxing to try anything. He had always been in and out of petty troubles and scraps around the school yard a little more than you and I, perhaps, but nothing none of us didn’t get ourselves involved in at one time or another. Baseball seemed to have anchored his lawlessness in early high school. That is until sliding grades got him kicked off the team. Around this time he’d picked up chewing tobacco and drinking on weekends. He wound up in at least one fight a week; mostly spawned from cloudy disputes at teenage parties. Honestly, nothing out of the ordinary in that time, and in that town.
His parents divorced, marking where the dark turned darker in the young man, when his father was caught by a private investigator his mom had hired in the throws of love or something similar with another woman. I saw one of the photographs taken by the Seamus. My cousin’s father, my uncle, looked happy carrying this woman across a parking lot. I had always known the guy to be a surly ineffectual man.
My cousin found solace and a good shot at redemption in a young girl named Crystal, who I’ll name outright as the only true innocent in this tale and on whom no mortal judgment shall pass. Crystal was the good hearted sort, a devout Christian who could cross any line and befriend even the most wayward and unruly of characters that are usually avoided by church-going folk. She was even a friend of mine.
It is my understanding that their friendship was solid, that only she could control him when drunk or otherwise fucked up. And my cousin was someone who by even the toughest among and most willing among us could not be subdued. He was part Iron Mike and part Raging Bull. He may not have won every fight he was in, but took the best of anyone: friend or foe. Crystal was the only one whom he revered. He had tried to become more than friends with her on a few occasions, but was unable. She loved her friends; she loved her family and church. She loved homework and puppy dogs and that was all. He seemed to suffer no frustration over this, proving, to me anyway, that his affection was not born of teenage lust, but of some other force unknown to me as I had never before or since seen a lion and a Christian that did not fight. And so the lion slept beside the lamb. That is until the little lamb was knocked into oncoming traffic by the Hand of God at an intersection one day. Crystal, her own cousin, and baby sister were killed in a head on collision. Now she slumbers in pastures far from my cousin’s reach. Hereafter began the coke, and the steroids, the drinking, and the mugging.
I know of two trips to jail, and at least a couple court appointed stays in rehab. During some sober moment, and this is far past high school days, he had fallen in love with and married a cute little girl who bore more than a passing resemblance to Crystal in body and kindness. It should be said that for the most part my cousin was a functional addict. He maintained jobs and amongst family and most friends was congenial and very well humored. Though the steroids gave him an unnatural brawn he appeared as no monster. On his last go ‘round he must’ve put on quite a show for he had reached the limits of his Christian wife’s grace. She threatened to divorce him, finally. For the first time he checked himself into rehab, and from what I heard was doing great and all were proud. What happened between then and when his wife found his body I can not say. There was no note only the pills untaken.
Granted I didn’t give my boss such a narrative, but I was able to hit on all the points. My boss showed concern and even friendly affection. I was impressed. In addition to the change in next week’s schedule I needed she gave me the rest of the day off, which was great as I felt pretty spent. And, I must admit, that I felt unburdened in telling this seemingly unsympathetic wretch my tale of woe. It’s amazing what will pull us together in the end. I’m even smiling as I type this.
Later that evening I got a call from my best friend. Unlike Crystal my friend works to rile me up and I her. My friend had just had a fight with her live in boyfriend and was calling from a motel. Not a big deal; just the petty response to a petty ultimatum. Anyway she needed a distraction so I picked her up and went to an Indian restaurant. I told her I had a good uplifting story for her.
“Is that true?” she said.
“Most of it. Only my cousin isn’t dead; fully rehabbed and enjoying a sober married life last I heard.” I smiled at my friend, and she laughed.
“So, why such a dramatic story?” she queried. I explained I hadn’t intended on giving my boss the whole shebang, but her reception of it was so redeeming I just wanted to enjoy this moment of getting along with my supposed betters for once. And, besides, I had the story of my cousin written in a short-story I had shit canned, I thought I might let it see the light of day in some other form.
“What are you going to do with your three days off?” My friend asked. “I wanted to put in a serious start on my (now legendary unwritten…) book. And, I don’t know, find something I can dust off and use for my next blog since it’s about mid month and I’ve no idea what I’m going to write.”
posted by pacoblue at 7:22 PM
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