As I sit here suffering from what one would assume is pneumonia, I ponder how awful the past thirty-six hours have been. Shockingly, I managed to have a horrible day despite having two fantastic meals, one obligatory White Castle meal, and the company of good friends and beautiful women. I arose sometime in the mid-afternoon (I was awake, just on a Frisky Dingo marathon) to find my roommates bailing water out of our basement. They had somehow managed to stick our washing machine into a permanent rinse and drain cycle overnight, which led to our basement becoming an Icelandic kiddie pool. I drove some pretty worthless miles to go to the only Home Depot that didn't rent water pumps, then just gave up. Unfortunately, social butterfly here wanted to go out and needed to shower. As a general idiot, I forced myself to take a shower without hot water, as our pilot light had been extinguished in the flood. That was probably the least enjoyable experience a male's genitalia will ever endure, and I saw a guy lose a testicle to a passed ball one time (How hard would it be to tell a story of your ball passing on a passed ball?).
So the bad vibes took a break shortly. I went to Drunken Fish for sushi, and probably one of the better meals I've had in a while. No real sushi, because I wasn't particularly adventurous yesterday, although I think I gave a woman my number which is progress of some sort. The following stop was Syberg's for generic 80's Night where I was one of the youngest and certainly the most immature male present. The crowd was a mix of cougars, faster cheetahs, and people like my friends blissfully out of place. I can't dance(Shocking, I know). It's kind of freaking weird that two people dance without touching in the first place, so I can't really explain how people dance to any sort of electrical instrumental music. I learned how to dance classically from a friend's grandma, so one might say I'm slightly snobbish about dancing. It's not about dexterity either, got plenty of that; it's just the only thing I'm self-conscious about. The problem with living your life one joke to the next is that when you look like an idiot, you're secretly making fun of yourself. So if you ever see me dancing, please make fun of me, because if you don't I'll have a nervous breakdown.
Now, the next mistake was an interesting one for me. I'm not a dishonest person, but you should never take anything I say at face value. Sarcasm is my mistress and last night it was a cruel one indeed. For a man who rarely apologizes for his blatant disregard for one's understanding of his dialog, I found myself backtracking from get this...honesty. When I am sarcastic and coy for a two hour period, then blatantly tell someone the truth, you can't blame them for not believing me. So, I filed that away under reason #2492 why women don't want compliments, while still appearing to be desperately seeking them. Que sera, sera.
Now, after my White Castle crave killing, I awoke to more Frisky Dingo, and a room with a humidifier and the AC on. Neither of these actually were true, but with no heat and cold wet air flowing freely through the house, it was no different. Hence the pneumonia which I am assuming is causing my upper chest to feel as though I still huffed gasoline. Despite the pneumonia, I actually waded into the much lower water and restarted all of the house's heat, which by Tuesday should make me feel remotely better. So after two days I am out $100, a pair of lungs, and added another woman to the long list of "beautiful formerly-interested women who now think Joe is a total douche."
So after my long intro, here's a story I wrote last semester as a personal narrative. If romance was not a significant portion of life, I would say that I have lived almost every experience known to man.* People tell me to write a book, but really my life is really just a series of awkward vignettes. I'll publish a volume of the them later, called "Gin and Platonic". Friends and family can note the foreshadowing that occurs when I describe my relationship with my dear dead truck, which I had recently killed before writing this.
*Romantic things Joe has done for a women in his life: 0
I'm pretty sure I've never actually asked someone to go on a date with me, only once can I remember paying for a romantic dinner, and I think I was broken up with after that dinner. Hell, I don't even own any candles, and those are like the cheesiest romantic thing I can think of. I twice bought a woman flowers out of obligation. Does holding hair back during vomiting count?
**Douchy things Joe has done: We lost count in the summer of 2006, when my Mom called me a jerk. Although, I'm sitting on 3 for this year after last nights douchiness.When you have to think up ways to use douche as if it were the F-word, you probably should stop being a douche.
How The Snow Piled On
I stand gazing upon the remnants of my past life, aghast to the beauty and horror unfolding in front of my eyes. Serenely, the snow continues to fall onto my furrowed brow, cooling the anger rushing through my blood. Inches of snow have formed a tomb over all which I hold dear, like an Egyptian pharaoh headed to the afterlife. Shock isn’t the appropriate term, because I wasn’t surprised. Problems of this magnitude usually occur to people of my disposition, those prone to the drink and lacking in responsibility. Nor was I that worried, I had been in tougher spots before, at least this one was only my problem. I slowly reach for my phone, as I’m sure someone would like to hear about this. Maybe I’ll just call a friend, but honestly how many of those do I have? Even less probably give a damn. Well, it could be worse; I could have wrecked on the way here. And as they say, I do have my health.
Tuesday dawns as typical as any day of my life. I awake to my musty apartment, and as always a frigid and bitter existence. I follow a simple routine, as any man of faith would in such circumstances. I awake, curse God for my current plight, and then immediately thank him for another chance at redemption, another day to prove my mettle and worth. However, I am not off this morning to neither do any great deeds nor improve my general standing immediately. I am a student, and that grants me a certain level of exemption from responsibility at the current stanza of my life. Or at least, arrogance grants me such a concession. I get out of bed, and my thoughts as always drift to thoughts of grandeur, but slide past the simple mundane tasks needed for survival. I pour some cereal into a bowl, far more opulent than a man in such living and financial conditions should possess. Milk drips down my chin, as I peer over my mail. A bill from Ameren, a bill from Charter, Laclede Gas, something from St. Louis County, and a letter scribed by my mother’s shaking hand; typical end of the month mail, but nothing worth looking at again.
As I walk to my truck probably running late for my 9:30 class, flurries begin to come down, another beautiful morning to be wasted away in a classroom. I hold no place in my heart for the cold, but I’ll take a forty degree day in February with a little snowfall. This reminds me, I should probably put some weight in my truck or I’ll be ice skating my way home if this continues. UMSL is an interesting school to attend with so many commuters, so one should never worry about being late. It’s a natural occurrence with the traffic and the parking and crime hazards they write off as garages. However, compared to where I was two years previous, it might as well be heaven. If it were snowing in Rolla, I wouldn’t have even bothered to get out of bed. But neither would you, if you were faced with Calculus, Physics, and Differential Equations. So I cruise up Lindbergh, jamming to my radio, since I destroyed the CD player long ago. Not a care in the world, except for a day of class that will be neither interesting nor challenging.
I arrive to find UMSL strangely abandoned, and the parking to be ample and remarkably easy. The snow has accumulated slightly upon the ground, but nothing more than a quarter of an inch. Nothing to a Missouri man who has seen blizzards, floods, tornadoes, droughts, and basically anything Mother Nature could throw at us. My history class has only half its students as I arrive five minutes late, but school hasn’t been called off. Either the other students know something I don’t or the other they just found an out for the day and took it. So Professor Acsay lectures anyways, the blinds drawn, so as to not draw attention to the drifts piling up outside. My mind wanders a bit, as he lectures on the advancements of European social history in the seventeenth century. The class takes long enough to have the damage done, and as I walk out to go to my next class I’m greeted by a half-foot of snow. Thankfully, the big wigs at UMSL decide to cancel classes after I’m already essentially stranded myself here. No weight in a rear-wheel Ranger is just asking for trouble in these conditions. I find myself waiting for others to leave, so my progress is not impeded by worse drivers than myself. Though UMSL does not share my plight, they gleefully close the student center where I wish to wait.
I call my mother to discuss anything, while I kill the time. Apparently, it isn’t snowing at all in my hometown, which comes at great relief to me. That means if I were there I could drive unimpeded, but what good does that really do except to piss me off more. Why am I here anyways? The assholes could have called off school early if a blizzard was in the forecast. Then again, it’s not my style to fret over what could be or should have been. I’m here, so here is what I have to deal with. So around 12:30, only after waiting ninety minutes, I get into my truck again to make a daring return home, over the unfortunately uneven St. Louis terrain. I learned the previous semester that biking ten miles in St. Louis is akin to biking thirty miles on level ground. So my truck would have to manage such inclines, as I headed to Home Depot off of Page, not a short drive on these hazardous roads.
I don’t think St. Louis drivers are bad; I think they’re terrible. They drive thirty-five in the rain on the Interstates, don’t use turn signals, and God forbid it snows. So a five minute drive turned into two hours, people sliding and spinning their cars along the road. Terrifying is not worthy of trying to avoid accidents when every other driver is trying their best to hit you. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but then again for the man who holds his truck dear, this may not be such a stretch. A truck has been the constant in my life up to this point. Women have come and gone, with them went my friends for I felt they needed them more. My parents and family are emotionally present, but physically distant. I’ve moved cities, and lived different lives but all on the same wheels. So I luckily make it to my destination, and save us both from danger.
The trip home takes another hour even with traction, as cars litter the roadsides and plows only get the major roads. Of course, my trip demands that I drive down steep inclines and stop on steeper ones. So I take care not to wreck, and bitterly drive slowly towards home. The warmth and coziness of my apartment has never seemed so inviting, and I push onwards steadily. Eventually I drop the final steep incline to my apartment, at a brisk five miles per hour, and I marvel at the heap of trash greeting me. Who the hell dumps their trash on the side of road? Even stranger, why does their trash strangely resemble the dresser I’ve owned since I was a child? Or the couches that my coworker John gave me to make my apartment resemble everyone else’s living rooms? Son of a bitch!
So I come to a stop, and the protruding junk confirms my initial fears, I was evicted during a blizzard. Plenty of people get evicted, plenty of people don’t keep up with their bills, and plenty of people make bad decisions. That mine all come together in some sort of hilariously peculiar circumstance is something I’ve grown accustomed to. Intriguing was the timing at best, and for certain, when the men arrived to remove my belongings, there were inches of snow on the ground. Now, I don’t blame them: a job is a job, and conditions do not matter. However, I would prefer if they wouldn’t have stolen my tennis racquet and knives. Seriously, that is my main concern at this time. My clothes are good, though soaked, and a few books are destroyed. My furniture was treated with little respect, essentially destroyed, and that was slightly bothersome. Then again, what does a homeless man need furniture for? Hastily, I packed up my belongings, and when I finish, my truck resembles a Tetris level (and a poorly played one at that).
Necessity dictated that I find a temporary solution to this problem, but one containing more substance than going up to the office and beating the workers with a bat. I saved everything I owned with the exception of my furniture, and I needed a place to go. Luckily, since I haven’t paid my rent for the next month yet, I have money, but nothing was going to be cheap enough for now. I am already moving out at the end of the month, so I had a place but not for a week. So I call my friend Jesse, who I was moving in with, to see if I could crash at his place for a while. However, Jesse lived with his parents, which complicates the situation. As my living alone would say, I am firmly independent and reluctant to accept help from others. This implies that I am an idiot in every sense. One exposed to the callousness of capitalism, due to my own mistakes, should not be deserving of equal kindness from strangers, though often the best comes from those unknown. Jesse, without notifying his parents, tells me that’s fine, after listening to my embellishment of the circumstances. Why should I be the idiot, when I can clearly play the victim?
So here I am driving around in a snowstorm, looking like a gypsy with his whole life on his back, and for some reason, I drive back the way I came. I don’t feel like taking the short road, perhaps I can think of something heartening emerging out of the rubble of my life. This time, the weight I purchased for my safety and the weight of my belongings combined to make the incline almost impossible. I reached the top of the hill, and could not go farther. Exasperation gripped my being at this moment, and I turned away defeated. In turning, I faced another defeat, as the same weight pushed me down the hill, my brakes struggling in vain to control the truck. When life gives you lemons, it’s only to distract you so it can stab you in the back. My truck slides gracefully down the hill, ignoring the curve of the road, and glides into a tree. Silverware, randomly tossed into the truck bed, showers the lawn and glitters in the sun that peeks through the clouds. Now, I’m completely screwed: no apartment, a busted truck, and no kitchenware.
As is expected on this day, every tow truck in the city is stuck in the snow as well, and I call six or seven companies, and am put on numerous waiting lists. So while I’m freezing to death extremely slow, I walk up to the house with which my truck shares a lawn. The man (a real estate agent, just what I need) allows me to come in and warm up as I wait for the towing that will never come. On my worst of days, these series of kindnesses give my present animosity a silver lining. From this day, I’ve had a faith in humanity that I previously did not have. I attribute this to the soullessness of engineering schools, but perhaps in my state, I’m being overly harsh. The tow truck arrives and for an extra fee, even makes my truck drivable again. Now, looking like a wounded gypsy, my truck advises me that the wisest path out is the one I failed to take earlier. Without any remaining bad luck and poor decision-making skills, I escaped the evidence of my ineptitudes and arrived at Jesse’s house.
As a form of penance for my encroachment upon his parents’ domain, I help shovel their drive. The work is bitterly slow and shoots pain down my already tired back; nevertheless, it’s something else, a retreat from my own problems. I thank them repeatedly, as they help me store all of my junk into the garage to await transportation to my new home. I took my clothes to wash and reluctantly accepted the help I could get. Once the work was done, we drove to Casa Gallardo, to not upset the routine of Jesse’s father, but also to drink away what had occurred today. The worst day of my life was over, but as all bad days go, I wouldn’t consider this my worst ending. Through all of this, one could assume I learned something. But in reality, I don’t think this is true. Sure, now I pay bills on time, and I don’t drive down steep inclines (due more to a lack of a car than to intelligence). Yet the only comfort and lessons I found were already there. I could trust in people just as easily as they trust in me, and that margaritas at Casa Gallardo taste much better when you have a reason to drink heavily.
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