Chronicle's End
But, he treated her differently. My soon to be proverbial her. Her that would haunt my life with these bittersweet memories of how I thought it would be, gone wrong. Her that would reconfigure how I thought about my one and only. Her that would eventually become my greatest catalyst for the pursuit of life long goals. Sure, it doesn’t sound so bad. But, it was the road here that deconstructed me. And, it is the road ahead that I must now travel alone.
“Quit talking and get back to work,” I vainly yelled to Andy as I tossed another round of pizza dough into the air.
Something about the way it spiraled calmed me down even in the midst of the 2:30 A.M. bar rush. There were drunken heathens everywhere I looked, so tired of their tall and mundane lives that they had let themselves go in a liquid frenzy of relief and abandonment. I too sought solace in the booze and the grass, but was too fixated on feeding these assholes to think about myself.
“Andy, get the fuck back to work!”
Another one of his air-headed, young breasted friends was staring through the patterned holes cut in the wall that separated the slobs from the cooks, consuming his attention so completely that he could barely feign his pizza making prowess. My animosity consumed me in a jealous fury that would always result in a late night, slash, early morning session with a few paper girlfriends and a room full of smoke. I was trapped in a cycle of self-loathing that closely resembled a plan to destroy one’s self. How I wished that those eyes were peering through at me and that someone would finally love me enough that I would know I was worthy to receive it. Instead of extroverting myself like Andy, who so desperately wanted the same thing, I just fell inside and continued kneading dough. My eyes scanned the crowd for the next point of focus, but none of them would do.
My preconceived perception of perfection, also known as my proverbial her, was this: She will be a virgin awaiting marriage as I am. She will be the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. She is going to be the kindest and most giving woman who will see and appreciate the life long preparations that I have made for her. She will help me fix the pain that my mother went through by encouraging me treat her right. We will strengthen each other and serve our one God together, making life better and acting as an example for those around us. And, I just know she will be an artist.
None of these girls even came close and no eyes were peering through the holes in front of me as I continued the never ending task of laying down circle upon circle of greasy pepperoni. Andy’s most recent groupie dropped away into the sea of alcoholics, faded from my memory, and my mind narrowed his crew of high-school defects down to one single possibility.
“Hey, Andy. Who was that girl with the blue bandana?” I asked. Not that I was trying to be vague for the sake of playing it cool, but I genuinely didn’t know who I was asking about or why. My memory of her was underdeveloped and not quite all that interesting. I just wanted someone to fixate on until my qualifications would put her aside.
“Who, you mean Bethany?” he replied.
I hope that’s not her name, tell me that’s not her name, I thought to myself. How ugly. Like Agnes or Gertrude. Please God, don’t let that be her name.
I put her possible name and all my surroundings aside and slipped away into my mind. I began to attach what I thought would be a more attractive name to a more attractive face. I filled in the blanks with all the best that my imagination could conjure and this propelled me through the rest of the night and on into my dreams.
When I awoke the next day I felt that my life had more purpose. Now that I had a prospect I could begin to work towards that goal, but when would I see her again? Since I had only seen her once, briefly shuffling through the swaying customers, probability would dictate that would be where I would see her next, so work became something to look forward to! I waited next to Andy for her night after night, slinging those dirty loafs of pig-bread in and out of the ovens.
“Is she single,” I probed.
“I don’t know,” he snapped back.
“Well, are you sure her name is Bethany?”
He began to get annoyed with me as if I were asking something very personal and replied, “Yes, its Bethany. If we are talking about the same girl then it's Bethany.”
Andy was the type of guy that was either on fire with enthusiasm for you or bummed out that he wasn’t the only one alive. Tonight was definitely the later. But, then she walked in and he stopped. She walked over to me, peered through those jagged holes in the wall and asked, “Is Andy here?”
She saw him, but wanted me. And, her eyes burned in my mind. I pointed to him and they slid away into the sea. I was left speechless and alone amidst the mass of consumers and when Andy returned he returned alone. His enthusiasm for humanity had been renewed.
I thought, I want a girl that can do that to me. I want a girl to ask for me through those holes. But, she was still a blur in my mind. Until I realized that her eyes were no longer hazy and I no longer wanted just someone. I wanted the girl with the blue bandana.
Later that night in my room I began to dream before sleep arrived. Those eyes were hauntingly familiar. I searched through my memories for a match, but came up short.
“Where the hell have I seen those eyes? Green, gray, blue, with thatches of brown like pockets that contain secrets that beg to be discovered. So ablaze. So intense. I need to see those eyes again and ask them my disqualifying questions. I need to put her to the test. Could those eyes belong to me one day? Could this be her? I feel something, why? This is not my ordinary instantaneous obsession. Oh sleep, please come and take me away from the torment of my over spilling heart! Her eyes are like my heart. Fixating on them too long could be deadly. Everything else falls away and they burn harder and harder, sucking me in like a drunk into fire. What can save me from this compulsion?” And, again my night ended with a few paper girlfriends and a room full of smoke.
Why does my night always end like this? Drunk like them and alone like me. Is it possible to die of loneliness? The answer appears to be, yes. It seems that loneliness is the first catalyst for the toxins that will destroy me. I call them my deadly four; the four frivolities that will someday take my life. They are as follows in order of power: Booze, Porn, Weed, and Smokes. They all work together for my downfall. The booze loosens my morality and keeps me content to be less than I am. The porn works against my ability to relate to others and keeps my level of shame at a crippling minimum. The weed intensifies my insanity, thereby giving me an escape from responsibility and leaving me blameless in my sin. And, the smokes finish me off with an over all feeling of death gripping my lungs and tainting my blood. These deadly foes have been inherited and will someday take my life.
Before I knew it the sun was up and it was time to continue lamenting my loneliness. I fumbled in my sheets and slapped the mattress as though my hand were passing through an invisible lover until my frustration broke. Work came sooner than usual that day as I had proven myself capable of opening at the ungodly hour of eleven A.M. I finished my less than hygienic routine and peddled myself down the tree riddled streets. Without the slightest recognition of time's passing from door to door I began preparation of the mornings pie.
Fresh veggies made deadly in a brew of oils and seasoned salts, cold pepperonis piled in a bin whose edges were dried and crunchy from prior usage, and soft white dough that often contained the carcasses of swatted flies; these were among the most popular of our supplies. These were the standards that would feed the drunks, and in this case the high-school lunch rush.
It seemed that I was stuck between two very powerful social circles that needed not of me other than to be served. Child after fashionable child requested the same pig-loaf and noxious-ale combo. Again, I watched as they devoured their filth. With metallic grins and greasy paws they peeled their waste directly onto the floor as they exited satisfied customers. How lovely my view of the world was as I cleaned their refuse. I didn’t complain. I didn’t often shout or kick. I just held it in like a good societal-soldier and earned my six-thirty with class. As there were usually a few young stragglers that did not fit the scene I stepped behind the counter and readied myself. But, instead of the obvious high-school reject I received a different breed of angst.
She walked through the door, directly to me as if with purpose and said, “Gimme' some food.”
I took her in as if absorbing some form of raw data; soaking up every detail I could before her departure. As I observed her far too large and unfashionable sweat top, paint splattered pants with knees missing, and those awful schoolmarm shoes I thought, oh no, is she fat? But, my gaze snapped back to the blue bandana and those burning eyes.
“What do you want?” I replied afraid and ashamed from the lingering effects of the prior evening.
“I dunno, what’s free?”
“What’s free? What’s free?! What kind of question is that?”
She snapped back far too quickly pointing to the one other person in the room and myself yelling, “I know all you people! I know all of you!”
I looked back to my co-worker for a confirmation nod, but instead received a confused look and a shaking head. Her conduct had not impressed me so I offered forth a slice of pepperoni just to get rid of her.
“No, I want veggie. That slice right there.”
I pushed forth the slice to her and sassed forth, “Who the hell do you think you are?!”
“I’m Bethany,” she replied sweetly as she raised her slice in the air and simply walked out.
“Oh, you bitch. How dare you treat me like that. How dare you come in here like you own this place and tell me what to do. You don’t know me. You have no clue. What an ugly name. God she's hot. So, is she fat or what?” I happily repeated this to myself through the rest of my day and on into my dreams.
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