The Ride is Life

Emmet woke up on a chilly Saturday morning before everyone else in the house. He had been waiting in anticipation, much like a child with a new toy in its box, to try out some new riding gear that had been delivered the day before. With giddiness generally not present in his day to day life, he slid the gear over his thermal underwear and went to the garage to get his bike.

As he pushed the bike down the driveway towards the road, Emmet marveled at his breath that hung in the air after each exhale. It reminded him of his youth when he would wake up very early to go sledding after a nocturnal snowfall. A pulse of nostalgia pulsed through his body. More places he shall never be in again to add to a melancholy mental list he makes in moments of solitude.

He caught a glimpse of his neighbor, Kurt, pushing his bike towards the road. This could be fun, he thought, riding his bike with a friend like when he was a kid.

He shout out to Kurt, “Hey, buddy! How many you putting in today?”

“Ahh, a short one. Kid’s got gymnastics this morning and it’s my turn to take her. About 15-20” Kurt answered.

“I am stoked to try out this new bib, that’s perfect. Mind if I ride along?” Emmet asked.

“Don’t mind at all! The more the merrier. Besides, we’ve been talking about doing this for years”

The first two miles passed in chilly silence as the two men warmed up. Emmet was in front. Kurt sped up to ride next to him.

“Great to be on the road, isn’t it?” Kurt asked.

“The best” Emmet answered earnestly.

“It does get me thinking about things” Kurt interjected.

“Sure does” Emmet answered, coincidentally having been jarred from deep thought himself.

“Emmet, you ever think about ending it?” Kurt asked.

“What do you mean?” Kurt asked, knowing full well what his neighbor meant.

“You know, look, I loved that Anthony Bourdain guy. That hit hard. He had life by the balls. He was doing what he loved, saw the world, was extremely talented and was loved by millions, yet…” Kurt trailed off.

“That took me by surprise too. But, I think if that’s in you, it’s in you. Doesn’t matter what your circumstances are. It’s like a bad wiring or something.”

“Yeah, a bad wiring” Kurt repeated, more so to himself with the words echoing in his head.

“To answer your question though, no. It’s never crossed my mind. You wanna tell me something, Kurt?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I think I have a touch of that bad wiring. Sometimes thoughts get stuck in my head, like on a loop. ‘It’s all gonna end anyway, like, nothing we do means anything. Nothing lasts. We are absolutely alone’” Kurt said, looking straight forward.

“There may be some truth to those things, but, I just say to that, enjoy the ride. Just like now, us on these bikes. We are literally going nowhere but I am loving the shit out of it” Emmet answered, “such as life” he added with a chuckle.

They rode in silence for a little while, Kurt digesting this delicious analogy from Emmet.

“So going home is death! The ride is life!” Kurt blurted out so suddenly it startled Emmet.

Emmet decided to play along, “Then we are Hindus because to them, death is birth, so going home will result in a whole new life”

“Jesus Emmet, I didn’t know you were this deep. That’s profound, brother.”

Emmet surprised himself, as well.

“Thank you for the ear, Emmet. I needed this; you have no idea how much. And please, let’s keep this chit-chat between us. Not even the missus. This kind of talk gets people looking at you weird or with pity or something” Kurt said.

“You got it” Emmet said. He meant it.

They rode on. For the remaining miles, Kurt pondered the new life he could have upon arriving to his home. It gave him hope.

They arrived to their street and before getting within eyeshot of their houses Kurt broke hard and Emmet followed suit. Kurt got off his bike and urged Emmet to do so as well. “Man, again, you don’t know how much I needed this. Let’s hug it out. Please?”

The two embraced. Kurt was careful to not let Emmet see the hot tears that rolled down his cheeks. “Seriously, anytime man” Emmet responded. He meant it.

They both jumped back on their bikes and rode to their respective driveways. They hoped off, gave one more good-bye wave and pushed their bikes to their garages. It was still very early and both families were still fast asleep in the warm embrace of their homes.

Kurt immediately went to the chin up bar he had installed on the wall. He looked up at the crude noose, haphazardly made of belts that he had put up before the ride. With more tears, he undid the noose and immediately threw the belts in the trash, handling them as if they were covered in disgusting slime.

He took off his riding gear and put his pajamas back on and slid into bed. His whispered to his wife, “I love you”

She, still half asleep, asked, “How was your little bike ride, hun?”

With more tears and a smile he answered, “Life changing”

On The Outside Looking In (Pt. 1)

“You’re better off living in the hole looking out to the palace than in the palace looking at the hole”  Karl Pilkington

 

 

Makmood was born with deformed legs. Just beyond the knees were  flipper like flaps of flesh. He joked that we was born too late. If he were born a few hundred thousand years earlier, he´d do well as a water born creature but as a desert dwelling creature, they didn´t help him get around on the sand very well. Makmood made his way through life on the kindness of strangers and his community. He was a beggar. He felt he was fortunate to have meat on the table every night so for him, he had it all.

Sheik Masoud on the other hand was born a perfect physical specimen of a man. He was a natural athlete, a natural scholar and had angular good looks. Growing up in a royal family, he had access to everything, the best schools, the best athletic training, the best health care, etc. Masoud was not born perfect though. His deformation was unseen to the naked eye. It was in his brain. He suffered from crippling depression. He had everything the world had to offer at that moment at his very disposal, yet wanted none of it. At night he would slide his feet, adorned in satin slippers, across the marble floor to the edge of the second story balcony of his palace and look. His eyes were met with tiny flickers of light coming from tiny holes in the rock faced mountainside. He would curse the wretches whom occupied these primitive dwellings before turning the curses onto himself.

*   *   *   *   *

Makmood was hoisted onto an oxcart bound for the town square where he would try to earn his day´s wages by evoking sympathy in passer byers. On the way to town, he saw a man face down in the sand off the side of the road. The man was completely naked and his back was slightly sunburned. The driver had already seen the man and began to slow down.

“What do we have here?” Makmood asked the driver.

“Probably just a drunk who couldn´t find his way home last night” replied the driver.

“Might be” Makmood replied and added “regardless, we´ve got to get him out of the sun. He won´t last long like this”

“Makmood, you´re always trying help people when it is you who needs the help!” the driver said.

“Well, I´ve been blessed so I feel I owe it to the world to do my best to help others less fortunate than myself”

The driver tried to hide his puzzled face for fear it would insult Makmood. How on Earth could this guy think he is blessed? And how could he possibly be of help to others in his condition. He is a beggar. He lives off the generosity of others. He lives in a cave carved out generations ago by primitive people. These thoughts spun around the driver´s head in a circular motion until Makmood uttered “I will need your help helping this gentleman. Certainly I cannot lift him onto the cart myself.

The driver thought quietly to himself “I guess it is easy to offer help when it is not your own back you are offering” as he hoisted the unconscious man unto the cart.

 

*   *   *   *   *

The Typewriter

 

 

Clack, clack, clack went the sound of his typewriter. Frank was furiously pounding away on the vintage keys that set him back a small fortune in a little boutique shop in a gentrified, once artistic part of the city. A small mountain of cigarette butts spilled out of one of the empty cardboard coffee cups that surrounded his work space. He was writing for hours but nothing of quality found its way to the endless reams of paper.

“It´s all shit!” he screamed, though the only sentient being to hear these words were his cat and his neighbor. The walls were paper thin in his tiny one bedroom apartment in a converted candy factory in another gentrified, once artistic part of the city.

Frank had some success of late selling a few stories here and there but the well seemed to have dried up. Everything he came up with was derivative of something he had already read or had already written. He had recently gone off his mood stabilizers in hope that it would spark some hidden creativity.

With a deft sweep of his arm, the typewriter went flying across the room. It would have taken out the cat if it didn´t have such keen reflexes. He sat there staring at the typewriter, upside down on the floor for some time.

Clack, clack, clack. The keys of the typewriter started moving by themselves. Frank sat up straight. The clicking stopped. He slowly walked over to the downed typewriter and turned it over. He saw a sentence on the page after where he had stopped.

Just keep going.

Those three extra words on the page he hadn´t written. Frank was perplexed. Surely this wasn´t for real. He decided his mind was playing tricks on him and he decided to go to bed for the night.

When Frank awoke he walked over to the typewriter on the floor. He looked at the page and there were more words.

You suffer for your work. Now others must suffer for your work. Make them pay and you will reap the profits.

“What does that mean?” he asked himself out loud. He felt stupid for saying these words because he knew exactly what it meant. He needed new life experiences to draw from as inspiration. He knew that hurting people would evoke deep emotions that he could use to write.

Frank always had a violent streak that he used to punish only himself. He had never even thought of hurting anyone else but he figured that this must be a sign from above. Frank decided he would go to the park late at night and do some harm to homeless people. This way, he could do what the typewriter told him to with minimal risks with the law. Frank was also a coward and a weakling. A sleeping homeless person would offer the least resistance.

That night, Frank filled the pockets of his parka with a small bottle of rubbing alcohol, some rags and a box of strike anywhere matches. He also slipped two mini bottles of vodka he had obtained from his last flight into the breast pocket for a little added courage. He then set off for the park.

He found his first victim. It was a woman sleeping under a makeshift tent made of a cardboard box. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out one of the mini bottles. He was not a drinker and could barely get the vile liquid down his throat. A little even made its way back up and he had to swallow it a second time. He took a deep breath just to keep it down.

From behind him he heard a voice say “Having a party and didn´t even invite me?” Then he felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck, saw a bright light then nothing. The metal pipe that had just smashed his brain stem cut off communication from his brain to his body. The homeless man slipped of Frank´s parka, then the rest of his clothes. He was left unconscious and stripped to his underwear in the harsh cold in the middle of the park.

When Frank came to he was in a white room with bright lights. His hands were restrained with fur lined leather cuffs. He looked to his right and he saw his case worker, John, sitting on the chair besides him.

“How do you feel Frank?” John asked.

“Terrible. What happened?” he asked.

“That´s what I would like to know. The only facts I have are, you were found in Jefferson Park in your underwear, barely breathing. You had alcohol on your breath. A nice homeless woman saw you around midnight and got the attention of a nearby police officer” he said. “Have you been taking your meds?”

“Well, uh, no” he sheepishly answered. “But…”

“But nothing Frank. How many times do we have to go through this. You must take your medications”

“Am I in trouble, John?” Frank asked.

“No, of course not”” John said with genuine concern in his voice.

Off the hook again. Frank thought. Mental disease has its advantages. This will make a great story.

 

Man on a ledge

 

 

 

“I`m so tired” Larry moaned.

“That’s odd” Jan said lazily.

“Why’s that?” Larry asked.

“Because you don’t do anything” she answered not even having the energy to lift her eyes off the tips of her fingernails.

“I do plenty!” he said, slightly peeved.

“Like what?” she yawned.

Larry started to open his mouth to speak but not a thought came to his head. He closed his mouth again. He really didn’t do anything. He never had. He was even too lazy to breast feed when he was an infant and here he was, 35 years old, no job, renting a tiny apartment paid for by the government and without a hobby.

“I’m waiting” Jan said unable to hide the boredom in her voice.

Larry felt a slight panic in his chest. Up to this point he had never evaluated his life, not even for a moment. He was closer to animal than to human in the survivalist way he conducted his life. Food, shelter, sleep, television. Those were the only necessities he required. He couldn’t believe what he was feeling. He couldn`t believe he was feeling. When you are accustomed to leading a life as profound a loser as Larry, you don’t feel much. That is the only way to move forward in these circumstances.

“Just wait right here” Larry said to Jan.

“Ok” Jan almost whispered without an ounce of curiosity as to where Larry was going.

Larry undid the four locks of his third floor apartment. He made his way to the staircase. He took a deep breath before opening the heavy metal door. He made his way up the six flights of stairs that led to the tenth floor. At the ninth floor, he noticed that the light was burned out and he walked the rest of the way in complete darkness. When he reached the door that gives access to the roof he paused. He pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket. As he lit his cigarette in the dark he marveled at the pale illumination the lighter gave off.  He took a long drag of the cigarette and opened the door.

The light was blinding because of the darkness he had just spent the last few moments in. The air was so warm that the wind was hot. It felt like the exhaust of a tractor trailer being blown on his face. He stood there just feeling the hot wind and letting his cigarette burn down.  He did this for so long a time that the cigarette had burned down to the filter and reached his fingers. The pain felt so good to Larry at that moment.

He made his way to the ledge and looked down.  He couldn’t help but feel like a failure. Everybody who had come into contact with him had been let down at some point. He stepped up onto the waist high wall. He felt unbalanced on the wall but he was strangely unafraid. Then he heard a scratching in the gravel that covered the rooftop. It was the stray cat that hangs around the building and whom Larry would give food on a daily basis. It too jumped up on the wall. It started to rub its head on Larry`s head.

Larry bent over to pick up the cat and he immediately burst into tears. This sudden eruption of emotion was just what it took to topple his already precarious balance.  In thirty five years Larry had avoiding killing anything. That day he succeeded in killing two.