I’m between home and show and booked in for the night, but adrenalin has bled out, and the minutes feel skinned alive. Moments hang together, nerves exposed. I’ve chickened out and beat the last joke to the car.
Drunk executives and their punch bags heave under the weight of free buffet. Young do-goods shake jowls and move to music beneath them as I rifle through pockets for proof. The casino’s private police force will not have theft. I hear the irony jangle as it falls through slots.
Shooter glasses of green urine-flavoured wine fuel the loop: same talk, same joke, same flirt, same fear, same wank in your room, business unit leader … really?
I said I’d stay, but limp, toasted cheese sweating under cling wrap, like a tenderpreneur between hearings knocks on my door, held up by a rightfully unsmiling woman. The delicate chlorine veil fails, exposing my nose and showing the frayed edges of hygiene’s smile. Stiff towels and fatigued sheets don’t want me here. I may not respect myself in the morning.
I’m gone, just like that.
Talk radio fills the yawning road. Music disrespects the interior stillness of the car. I turn the knob and strangle Tom Waits slowly, gentling the blackness a shade.
No signal. I know how my phone feels. My battery enters a blue period. Silence’s disinterest in my anxiety amplifies it. My heart skips and gets in the ring. The horrors come on.
What’s eating me? I am — and I’ve left an odd taste in my mouth. Do moths have any idea why their balls smell of old people?
White lines in my headlights and they’re headed straight for me. An eon ago, I did coke on this very stretch. CD cover perched on steering knees, banknote delivering the arse dust of a mule to my brain. That night, I aimed at oncoming traffic.
I’m standing outside the neon-lit roadside stop, praying to David Lynch over a greasy, black puddle. I smell midnight. Glass slides. Brands fall over themselves to welcome an old friend, hang from the shelves with bold claims: energy, taste, crispness, softness — bite-sized, vacuum-packed hookers. A mechanical eye follows me down the aisle. The human behind the glass is trying to sleep, a strange exhibit amongst the other stuff on show.
We mumble. I like goodbyes. There’s relief in ending connections.
He chooses his moment: i’m just coming out of the 24-hour and headed for the car; overpriced road snacks in a bag.
There is the start of a conversation about something, but he doesn’t care … he’s watching my reaction to the bait.
Large glassy eyes match the bright orb at the child’s nose. He can’t help but look up at me with hope he no longer has for his father.
“I want to buy him something … ”
I’m already handing over the money, my eyes not leaving the boy.
“You better, get him something — now.”
I refused a hotel tonight. Of course I’m lost.
You express exactly how how feel most days
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Your writing skills are to be commended! Who would have thought. Well done – a great piece.
I might have to read this after my first cofee tomorrow morning because I see a whole lot of words but cant really hear anything.
How wonderfully reminiscent of Dylan Thomas!
Genius my man, pure genius
like a trip on the holodeck
It’s sophomore angst. Sorry John, stick to jokes. Or man up and read Proust.
And was that a heroic ending, masquerading as self deprecation? Jesus. You comics are too much.
ditto Dipuo
Nice one John! Exceptionally descriptive & thought provoking.
@Benzol – I may be wrong, but I think this is one of John’s personal accounts – a piece that talks about his experiences with executives, his experiences with the substances of his past (read his profile piece for some background) and people he encounters while on his journey. John, do I have this right or am I off track completely.
A great insight into the mind of probably one of the most misunderstood intellectuals we have in this country.
I see you baby
Good writing
You channeling Eliot bru?
“The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;”
Dear Steve. I could refer to you as “you reader” (summing you up by the only thing i know you for) and ask you to stick what you do, but I believe we both know how stupid that would be.
Brilliant! Brilliant! Brilliant!
This beautifully written piece was like a memory spike, has he read my mail I wondered -know about these executive “team building” sessions, if that is what is was.
I have a particular aversion to drunken, gluttonous executives. As for that odd taste, we are old friends.
I will never know what inspired this piece, but what I find so very intriguing is the reference David Lynch and not surprised at the fading of Tom Waits, what song I wonder ?
The absurdity of Midnight… ironic ?
Green urine? You need a doctor dude
Aye John…each street lamp blinding and all the highway’s cat-eyes’ felt under the tyres. Waits would understand..
Wonderful piece of writing John! Always admired your work, both comedic and personal reflection.
There are times when the greatest act of kindness we can express towards another human being is to swallow our own sadness, or to refuse to make that sarcastic or impatient remark. Acts of kindness such as these cost us ourselves, and when we agree to pay this price it is a better, brighter world we buy back. “Guy Finley”
Great piece..you must be so tired of the surprise people express when they realize that you can write well about serious things..hmmmm is comedy a job or a lifestyle?