Shake off the muck left from the night before.
Crack open eyes matted with dirtbag gravel.
Trace the line of a frayed power cord; unlock a sticky phone. What’s that fucking number again? Oh, yeah. A birthday.
I should probably change that shit. Just so I don’t have to remember those digits anymore.
It stopped being relevant over a year ago.
It might be easier to use the print of a shaking finger. But biometrics rarely play nice with battered ramp hands. So I’m condemned to absorb yet another PIN. Without the security of any sort of receptive cushion to actually carry it.
Splatter out plasticine texts. Because if I don’t respond quickly enough, people worry. And then wonder all day if I spent the night drowning in the Grand.
Which surprisingly hasn’t happened yet. Despite my unsupervised stupidity, I am somehow still alive.
So I nuke the annual Yuletide Hot Pocket.
It doesn’t matter the size or flavour. It’s all just overly processed culinary napalm anyway.
Smoke a bent cigarette waiting for the machine to ding. Because something has to burn. I’d rather it be tobacco. And not my face, when the nuked abomination inevitably explodes catastrophically at the first hesitant bite.
The stomach begins to turn faster than the glass tray. The clear indication that it’s far too early for any sort of food-like substances.
Kick on the kettle instead. Wait patiently for the water to boil. Watch jarringly as the world shifts back into focus.
The unseasonable weather leaks onto the Boulevard as the cuppa brews. Listen to the downstairs neighbors fighting. Again. Or maybe they’re fucking. It’s impossible to determine their exact activity. Because it all just sounds angry.
I just know that it is a lot of noise. For not a lot of day. And it sounds like they are having way more fun than me.
But then, quiet is a rare commodity living along the grubby Boulevard. That place where the traffic endlessly rattles and revs. And the sirens all scream. Usually after shots ring out. Right around the mourning hour of 2 o’clock.
Time here just cannot be trusted.
I guess Grandma was right. Nothing good ever seems to happen after midnight.
Below a window stained with nicotine dreams, the daylight street creatures begin shuffling by. The ones clutching their black plastic bag secrets. The ones purchased from the neighborhood party store. With money either borrowed, or hustled.
But it’s never really much of a party.
It’s really just… survival.
Pinball around until the nighttime comes. Because foxes run best when there is no sun.
That hideaway is surprisingly open amongst a city filled with closed doors. And I feel myself drawn to the familiarity of that sanctuary.
A copper ceiling reflects back holiday conversations. Festive strangers melt into muled revelry. But their Yuletide cheer honestly pisses me off. Because I’ve put in the hours here, bitch. And a face attached to an ugly sweater I’ve never seen patronizing before was in my usual spot.
So I sit with my back to a paneled wall instead.
The crowd ebbs and flows. Faces switch places. Headlights punch in through the front windows.
Nobody is really in a hurry to go home.
Against the wall, the overpriced jukebox plays a strange mix. I’d willingly take the financial hit, just to change the vibe. But I’m still banned from musical selections after the Taylor Swift bombing which robbed me of my musical privileges.
Pace myself through the initial pints to make the overtime funds stretch. Lie to myself that I’m going to be reasonable for once. And not end up the usual high-viz disaster the other patrons have come to know and tolerate.
But it isn’t long before the brittle solitude of another Christmas spent on my own demanded a higher proof baptismal.
So I down the pours. And fight back the tears. Armour myself with the warming kiss of a familiar Jameson splash.
Because I’m an Old Fashioned kind of guy. Just trying his best to get by in a new fangled, digital world.
I had to get myself numb. Because the sting of stupid airplanes still lingered. Long beyond what could ever be considered reasonable. Or healthy.
Because I remember just how much it hurt when familiar tin monsters fell from the sky.
And how much it made me miss my friends.
I eventually take back to the road. That familiar one, looping around the airport. Playing the unique 517 game of dodging all the deer. And the spinning hassle of all those Clinton County uniforms.
Stop by long enough to stand amongst the dying pines. At that special spot. On a little riverside rise, down where we used to kiss.
It was there I made more empty promises to a loaded river. But it never really listened. The black water only reflected back the twinkle of lights from a city I’m not sure I will ever understand.
The current runs endlessly northwest.
And collects more bodies as it runs down past where all the fish are laddered back up.
It’s probably just a matter of time before it claims mine, too.
And I’m okay with that.
Because it was just another dirtbag holiday.
And I know that I’m never going to make it out of Michigan alive…
