Golden Years

All the air was sound and vision…but well really, it was filled with that aura that you can’t really define, but…here’s the picture: I look over at Bill: he’s driving, but he really shouldn’t be. Bobbing the head like that can’t lead to proficient motoring, but at least he’s playing the part he’s cast himself. His face is covered by just enough stubble for the world to believe he’s sporting a beard, and not enough for me to be entirely convinced he’s not going to shave anytime soon. The hair on his face though is hardly the worst thing about him, although I’m not entirely without blame. But I’m talking about Bill. What IS this look? The Faulkner reader tucked under his thigh on the driver’s seat is probably just show, but that’s the one secret that’s never getting out. Otherwise, he’s wearing a tight printless v-neck, the kind that says, “I’m interesting,” but he’s wearing it really just because the collar points directly to what’s he’s really thinking about- y’know, the part of him which is given no room for ambiguity in the particularly skinny pair of denims hugging his bottom half. Maybe he says he’s avoiding being the establishment kid who will someday work for his dad, but he’s doing everything else we’re all doing. Hell, the kid’s drinking a beer behind the wheel of a car, still refusing to take off his plastic novelty sunglasses, despite the fact that it’s 11:30 pm. Anyway, although I am being a cynical prick, I don’t really care at the moment. Bill’s pumping Bowie, which gives me that cool, slinky feeling, like I can just slither into any spot in the world, and no matter what, I will fit the niche- anywhere I go, I’ll be the most interesting man on the planet, something like that. Shit, in reality, I can speak a foreign language, I paid attention in high school lit, and probably I can make shit up with the best of them, so why not? Perhaps a vision of grandeur, but anywhere I go tonight, I can see it: I’m wearing vintage suit slacks, 1940s leather jacket, and mirrored sunglasses. Ok, maybe in my fantasies I look like some kind of 70s Greenwich-villager, but that’s just the cool I want. I didn’t get to go to any of it; y’know, places like those early 80s Hall and Oates shows, you know, the kind where you could only get in if you were a clean shaven coke addict, so I’m allowed. Maybe I also look a little like Jack White in my vision, but just his interesting parts. I wouldn’t have to do this bullshit if I had just taken those goddamn piano lessons. Who takes a 6 year old’s refusal to play piano seriously? Fuck.
It’s Wednesday, but Bill “doesn’t know” that, by his own design of course, and I’ve decided I’m not making work tomorrow. Nevermind that I’ve taken my sick days already, those assholes should have given me more than a whopping two for a whole goddamn summer. I think my resume gives me another day if I want it. Or not, whatever. I’m not even making minimum wage, and I don’t have the balls necessary forego law school, so what the hell is an internship at a goddamn consulate anyway. “Hello, Mr. Yale, yes, I have a college degree, and I can make coffee and pick up faxes in 9 languages.” Assholes.
Drippity-drippity-drop goes the Bowie. Downright brilliant, just brilliant. Ziggy played guitar, eh? Well, David, I don’t know what a screwed down hair-do is, I’ve never used a rotary phone, and I’m not sure who originally wrote “Dancing in the Streets,” but, Jesus, I wish I could have done that whole 70s thing. Or any other decade really…but who’s ever satisfied in the first place?
Jesus, Bill, keep your goddamn eyes open. “Still rockin’ the shades at this hour, eh?”
“Just till we get there, it’d be more trouble to take ‘em off and then I’ll lose ‘em and you’ll step on them…whatever, we’ll get there. You’re hassling me.”
“Sure, man, whatever. You sure you can drink and drive?”
“Yeah, it’s cool. I’m 21.”
Yes, yes, Bill, that is cool. Chilly, actually. And chilly ain’t never been cool. Sometimes you gotta pioneer slang. If I could just adopt the vocabulary of Sammy Davis, Jr., I think I could fix the problem. Whether Sammy actually used “chilly” is pure speculation, but I doubt anyone will argue. All the world’s a stage, it really is. Look, watch this, it really is:
Me (with condescension; don’t forget sense though- having some keeps you going)
“So being 21 allows you to drink and drive? Can’t wait.”
Bill (hiply):
“It’s not the age, man, that’s just a line in the sand. C’mon, it’s a sign of your maturity, as accepted by the society which you tacitly consent to join everyday by not skedaddling on out of it, which, as a descendent of the Greatest Generation, you are programmed never to do. Yeah, 21 took forever, but you were in the trenches, fighting for it, just like I was. So now, I have matured, and I’ve put to rest those sharpest of bayonets, and now I’ll water myself to drown. I’ll quench my thirst until I damn well burst, and the location therefore holdeth nil for me. Wheels, pedals, and flashing lights are no longer my concern in this United States of America, friend-o. Badmouth, curse, and spit, I’ll take the liberty. And that, sir, is truly the kindest cut of them all.”
Me (again, condescension)
“You’re a moron.”
See, it’s just like a stage. Hell, it’s not just like, it’s exactly the same damn thing. Just that we can’t ever get down. We grow up on it, which I hope I’m still in the process of; it’s either that, or we’re growing down…until we’re all the way down.
A weird feeling for sure. We’re college kids, and I look at my parents, who scare the living shit out of me, and I sometimes question their existence. There are simply things that must happen in the management of a household that I just know they don’t do, so it’s entirely possible that my psyche has created this whole fantasy of them, just so I can continue to believe that, someday, I will wash my whites with bleach. I sometimes examine my own habits, and I must ask myself, “Does everyone do this?” The answer is met with more incredulity; “there’s NO WAY everyone does this, but even if they don’t, we’re all screwed (up) anyway, so why not?”. Like when Hank put his Hot Pocket in the trash half eaten. And I ate it. I’m not going to go through my logic; it’s really unjustifiable. Laundry list of other illegitimate parts of my life: I spent over a week battling one hell of a rat out of my house (only to find that it was actually two), I actually have attempted to obtain cocaine from a stripper (my opinion of the strip joint as “classy” probably also qualifies for the list), I rarely see a reason to wash my sheets, and I have cleaned my dishes with bleach. There it is, it’s out there; meanwhile, I know enough about ancient Germanic peoples to practice their religion, I understand One Hundred Years of Solitude, and I keep “The Economist” sitting next to my toilet. Thanks higher education- I can invest wisely real estate, just not in laundry detergent.
It’s dark, and we’re driving in circles.
“Jesus Christ, man, do you know where we are?”
“Yes, God, chill,” he replies.
“So by yes…do you actually mean no?”
“It’s all good, homes.”
Homes. Where the hell has clever slang gone? If someone would just call me “daddy-o” or refer to another person as a “cat,” I would, just that once, pretend that I didn’t disapprove, just for the gallant effort.
“So if I drink a little more, you’re not going to need my coherent consultation of a map?”
“Sweet Jesus, yes, do it. Think about it, the closer you get to blacking out, the faster it’ll seem we get there.”
“Mmmm, time-travelin’, eh?” Poor joke, but it wouldn’t be fair to him not to try. At least fish for something else. It’s only polite.
“Um, yeah, but if I take this goddamn thing to 88, I’ll probably barf. And hit a large group of people, who are all single parents and somehow all have children under the age of five. Who all have a soccer game in an hour. In which they all collectively will score the winning goal, which will launch their professional soccer careers. Whose great and collective success will all be based upon the loss of their parents to my drunken-“
“I don’t mean to be rude…but shut the fuck up.”
“driving skills.”
Even though we’re probably the most typical duo ever, I still can’t take myself seriously, and I probably believe that others shouldn’t. Sure, I’m worth a shit. Probably even two shits. Maybe most of the people I know are just somehow more than the sum of their parts. Actually, a large percentage of them are probably less. Really, hardly anyone is just the sum of their parts. I can’t think of anything quite as boring as being exactly the sum of your parts. Vices are cool; continued success in spite of them is better. Maybe that’s why everyone is trying so damn hard to get some. They’re everywhere- the 18 year old male who somehow appreciates expensive beer and won’t drink it without the proper glass, the 16 year old girl who has a credit card for every dress boutique she’s ever heard of, the want-away business student who thinks drugs will legitimize the alternative image he wants to front. Vices, man. I haven’t seen ‘em for keeps yet, but my hand’s on the lever. Those fingers, though, they’re slippery, those fickle bastards, they’ll get between the jaws sometimes. But it’s not just like that; sometimes those jaws go snap, and you get your nails clipped, to say the least- it was what you were really looking for in the first place. And if you weren’t, it’s probably better that it happened anyway.
Mmm, the air is sparkling, this night is fantastic. It’s going to be just excellent when you’re still in the car, and you can watch the air pop, pop, pop. That disc, did my best with her. I’ve got copies- the Martha Stewart voice is reminding me that mix CDs made for (lady)friends is a great way to seem somewhat interesting, and how many times can you listen to something without thinking about where it came from? No, I don’t have a person that this was made especially for, but that’s later. Right now, if she’s got good taste in the right places, it’ll work. Looking at Bill, and the skinny jeans he wears deliberately an inch short at the ankles (“Dude, nobody likes cankles- you gotta let people know you’re all ankles, man. Think about it, it’s only human, y’know?”), I’m reminded that this may be sad, but still a less objectionable alternative. Name of the game: play the cards you’re dealt, and buying Urban Outfitters off eBay just ain’t in my deck.
Outside, the rain begins to mist, turning to spit here and there. It’s one of those summer nights where the sky appears reddish gray; I don’t feel like this gets noticed enough. You read, “the sky is red” somewhere, you’re thinking, “Jesus, that’s creepy.” But it’s not, it’s essence of what we want, especially when it’s there to be seen, felt. Or at least what I want. This vine I’m swinging on, this guy, I’m not sure how long it is, but going down by one hand every now and then never really bothered me. Don’t misunderstand, I don’t wanna fall. Hell, I don’t even want to slip; I don’t wanna dangle, slide, tumble, or stutter. But, by God, I’ve taken my fair share of deliberate steps downward, and it’s a helluva feeling. I’ve swung it around a little, I’ve even done some of those things I don’t really wanna do, but I’m clinging still. And I like that. Controlled demise. It’s…it’s the diggity, and the diggity’s in my pocket. Jingle fuckin’ jangle. It’s like when kids play tag, and they’ll let the tagger come in real close, just to taunt him. They can’t be sure he won’t get them as a direct result of their bravado, but that’s not the point. I just gotta see him, mine, the tagger, see his eyes. I think I’ve seen him, his outline or something. Alright, so it was the cartoon version of him, but that’s valid- that’s a whole goddamn mess of validity, my friend. Laughing your way out is still going out, and if he shows you his eyes, well, you’re still the one laughing.
“Nothing ever can touch you in these Golden Years.” David Bowie.
Twisting off the cap now; in the words of Sitting Bull and all his native brethren, this is the modern day Big Medicine. One form at least; I like to build all sorts of Big Medicines into my life; they’re everywhere, you just gotta see ‘em. Big Medicine heals just like the regular medicine does, you just gotta see it for what it is. And don’t dare tell me what the hell healing is. That’s one thing I got, I can heal. And fucking Big Medicine is everywhere. Healing’s just not a conventional thing, man. It’s…heavier than they say. That’s how come I’ve seen two times my own manliness drop dead at 19. That was a kid, and that was a kid that did your “healing,” ok? It’s not black and white, and everything’s connected. The six and the one are still on the same die, ok, and this world is much bigger than one of those damn things. That story later; it’s not exactly what I’m driving at. But it’s related, and that’s probably the point.
Bill looks at me as if I’m not going to let him have any. Which I’m not. I’m in no need to have my vine cut this evening, and I already hacked it a little when I sat down in the car. It’s still out there, and not coming anytime soon; no need to rendezvous before I figure him out. I’ll wait it out, but in the mean, mean, meantime…
“Whaddaya doin’? You gonna buy it dinner or what?”
I take a sip, but hold it at a lesser angle so that it looks like I’m taking a gulp. The beautiful amber liquid sears my throat, but she’s a beauty sitting there in the bottle. That eerie light coming off the wine-colored sky; it looks like a fire’s been lit, really something colossal, just between us and the moon, and the smoke, it’s billowing toward us, so thick that only the most vigilant of the fire’s red light peeks through. And God, I’m talking to you, although I can only assume you listen as much as I do…thank You for the strange, wafting light through the liquid- without it, the beauty would be shrouded. I can see a few bubbles bounce up through it from the shock of the pour, and their gilded smoothness cools my throat, and maybe I’ll just believe the flowing water in my eyes secretes for beauty’s sake. John, not Jack, my whiskey-making friend, as I’ll take the cliché and leave your nickname for those less acquainted, you’ve seen him, found It…Him, It, Life’s dearest truth that lasts until the end of it all, any man’s last hurrah, big sleep, you’ve seen It, bathed in that amber light that I see, illuminating it all. You must have; it wouldn’t have lasted so long otherwise. Beautiful, black label.
What do these people, people like Mr. Daniels, get from it? Everything? God, I hope not; I’d have to feel stupid if they do. I mean, dying without understanding...I can’t imagine it. It’s too much: it’s sorta like how nobody knew Bruce Willis was dead in that movie, nobody. It wasn’t meant to be possible. But 40,000 people everyday take the leap- do they all know? Cause I’m doing nothing but watching…
Black’s really a hell of a color- might be something there. Deep…deep black.