Silent Scream

Monday night, 10:00 pm, Towers Dining Hall.
I'm in line for food. I couldn't really eat dinner a couple hours before, I was too jacked up on caffeine and had too much anxiety churning in my stomach to really eat anything. A bite of salad here, a piece of carrot there, maybe a chunk of steak, I couldn't take anymore than that. I had to send my plate off into the kitchen almost completely untouched. I felt a little guilty for wasting the food.
And so I went off to work, and after my shift I was fucking ravenous. And so here I am, in line for Late Night, some of the most awful food on campus. I'll put up with it, I just need something to put in my stomach.

And then she cut in line. Right. Fucking. In front of me.

She was short, dressed in a pink hoodie, with her sweat pants tucked into obscene, furry little boots.
Black hair, carelessly drawn back into a ratty, half-assed pony tail.
Purple glasses, behind which rested oblivious, glazed over cow eyes.
And the voice. Oh that voice. One could spend hours listening to that excruciating voice were one so masochistically inclined. Long Island sharpened her speech to an exquisitely painful edge. It sliced right through my armor with each syllable, I could almost hear my bleeding soul cry out for mercy. My god it was beautiful piece of work.

And the words that voice spoke:
"So anyway, all I had at dinner was, like, a little salad, some of those potatoes and a piece of cake, so I shouldn't be overdoing it with Late Night."
"So, um, do you, like, want to go to the gym later?"
"Oh my god! What is that you're wearing?"

She crossed in front of me, I think, to join her friends. Her pack of hyena friends. All of them were at least a head shorter than me. I, the giant amongst a group of childish, chatty little pygmies.
If we lived in a simple time, one without the trappings of modernity, perhaps a more sensible time, I think I'd be able to kill all of them for getting in the way of my food without a silly hint of remorse.
It's simple really; eat or die.
Hey, why not?
I look at the silverware rack, giving a tender, then savage glance at the butter knives. My cultural conditioning keeps me from satisfying my baser desires. I damn humanity as I take my hamburger. As I walk to my table I catch her glance, wishing and praying for the venom in my eyes to reach straight through her. I don't know if I succeeded, I don't suppose it really matters.

I had two tests in a row today, one interrupted by a fire alarm.
My prospective landlord told me that there is another group of three who are eyeing our apartment. He told me the first to sign the lease and give him the security deposit is going to get the place. He might as well have ripped my sanity right out of my head; my paranoia about losing the apartment has grown tremendously since we spoke this afternoon.
We have our first concert this Friday for VoiceStream, I'm working publicity Wednesday morning in Campus Center, and we have three hour rehearsals both Wednesday and Thursday night. On three songs out of our fourteen song set I have no idea what I'm doing. Over the weekend we leave to do a gig in Vermont.

It's been a long time since I've been completely frozen in fear. My room is a mess, my hands shake, I can't sleep.
And she has the audacity to cut me in line. Were I just a little weaker I think I would have thrown things against the wall and screamed.
I considered punching a wall earlier. I still have a bump on the knuckle of my right middle finger from the last time I punched a wall. It was last year, I was in the shower. I can't remember what it was I was frustrated about, but I threw my fist into the shower wall four or five times. I hadn't done it before, I was curious how it would make me feel. The rush was satisfying at the moment, but the pain killed the satisfaction after a while.
I made a loose fist, singled out a cinder block in the hallway at about chest height, and paused. The grief inspiring realization that doing this is just going to make my hand hurt and not solve any of my problems washed over me with crushing finality. I walked on defeated, sort of tapping the wall with my hand as I passed.
And so I sit here and type, buried alive.

An Oldie but a Goodie

Yet another relic from deep within my hard drive. For a few months between graduating from high school and going to college I worked at a temp agency (a different one than I work at now) doing day labor stuff, mostly working in factories. My first assignment was pushing shopping carts at the local Sam's Club. I bitch and moan quite a bit, but I think it makes for a nice effect.

Andy Hates Shopping Carts

In the weeks since graduation I have been looking for work, partly to earn money, partly to get my dad off of my back about my laziness. And, seeing as nobody will hire a teenager that's going to be leaving in seven weeks, I had to turn to a temp agency. I told them I was mostly interested in clerical work, but that I'd also be ok with "light labor." I don't know why I said this, perhaps it was out of sheer desperation. As such, I suckered myself into pushing shopping carts for a day at Sam's Club.

I don't think I've ever done anything quite so stupid.

I arrived at my designated time of 11 o'clock, directly in the heat of the day, mind you, with the asphalt of the concrete amplifying the heat. I received a little orange vest so I wouldn't get hit by cars, a walkie-talkie for contacting me if a customer need my assistance in lifting some huge and completely unnecessary purchase into their SUV, and a name tag. My fellow shopping cart wrangler was named Chris, a rather short and vocal young man, also a temp worker. Chris thanked God repeatedly at my arrival, he was "barely holding up and really needed the help." Oh boy, this is perhaps going to be worse than I thought.

I learned many interesting things about Chris and the nature of shopping carts while working. Chains of shopping carts are like caterpillars- nasty, uncooperative, minimum wage caterpillars. One person can reasonably handle a load of about ten or fifteen without breaking themselves, but to save time two or more people are used to handle longer chains. One person will push from the back while the other pulls on the front of the chain to steer the carts into the shopping cart receptacle area. This is, as you can imagine, mind-numbingly boring work, and inevitably leads to prolonged conversation between coworkers. Chris did most of the talking.

Chris is "Italian," although he does not pronounce this as you or I would, for Chris is also a "Virginian." Instead, Chris pronounces it "Eye-talian" and "Vuur-ginian." I quickly learned that Chris is also a rather compulsively violent person, and recently spent 90 days in jail for assault. He blames the Utah court system, because "Utahns- they think they can just talk down to you. They think they're better than everybody else." One quickly comes to recognize that everybody hates Chris- from the police officer who arrested him, to the judge who sentenced him, even down to his manager. Sam's Club is dressing their employees in promotional Real Salt Lake merchandise (although I don't know why anyone would want to endorse that dead-end team), and Chris took his shirt home to wash (as everything you wear while laboring in the hot sun inevitably gets soaked in sweat). His manager was not pleased, and berated poor Chris for not returning the shirt. Chris spent the next two hours expending his endless ill-will towards said manager. I wanted to strangle Chris before the day was out.

You also learn that very little of what Chris says is actually true. The more interesting of Chris' rather fantastic proclamations were:

• While living in Italy his dad trained him to be a hit man. Which, apparently, is a lot easier in Italy than it is in the United States, because should you get caught (which Chris reckons is about a one in sixteen chance) you can just buy your judge off.

• Chris was recently propositioned by "four fine-ass chicks in bikinis" on the bus to come spend the weekend with them at Bear Lake. If I was a fine-ass chick I would not be caught dead anywhere near the likes of Chris, much less actually talk to him.

• If he didn't need the work he would knock in his his manager's teeth in for yelling at him about the Real shirt. Given their respective musculatures, I would give Chris about 10 seconds of consciousness before getting laid out.

My shift ended at seven, and I was positively elated to leave. Exhausted, physically defeated, and fatigued to the point of dizziness, but elated none the less. Were it not for Children of Bodom I probably would have fallen asleep on the drive back. When I took my shoes off at home I discovered lovely little blisters on my feet. The one on my right shaped like an oval, the one on my left mysteriously shaped like a seven. The next time you see someone pushing a line of shopping carts at your local grocery store, give him a smile and a nod, they deserve it.

Iron

It's a beautiful July day, around 10:30 in the morning or so. I'm on my side in bed, staring out the window. After a few moments I get up, dress, and walk out the front door, pausing under the shade of a tree. The sky is faded blue, the sun is obscured by the leaves, blazing through in bright, mottled little patches on the lawn. A breeze is blowing.
In my pocket are three keys, only one of which really matters. I take a few steps out the door and walk up the stairs, keeping my eye on her the entire time. I left the t-tops down the other night, the only thing I have to do is get in, sit down, turn the key, and drive.
An old, familiar demon stirs deep in my chest, hot with anticipation. A sublime, fiendish little smirk reaches the corners of my mouth. I take the key out, my hands shaking a little.
Left foot pressing down on the clutch, my right hand slips the key into the ignition.
A quick twist of my wrist, and I'm greeted with a soothing, guttural roar. Something primal is flowing through my veins. The CD begins to play. I turn up the volume and slide the shifter into reverse.

A flaming blade of the dark shadows struck the lands
with furious lightning it fell into the hands of man.

Upon reaching the top of the driveway I step on the gas, crank the wheel to the left, and the front end swings around and skids to a halt, pointing straight down the road. I add a melodramatic pause, shift into first.

The clouds moved aside as the sword was cast from the sky
Burnt by a mark of fire, who shall make this find
And the grey clouds were watching down, down from the sky into the ground
As the shapes of light were drowned

The canyon is spread out before me, and as I round the bend I can see straight into the valley. Wind floods the car. The mountains are green, in spots the vegetation fades away to reveal mottled granite. Second gear.

Who dares to play with death
Who smells the dragon's breath
No grief for the fallen ones
The search for the sword has begun

Were the music not so loud I think I would be able to hear the tires squealing as I sling around the bends in the road. Doing 40 in a 25 MPH zone, I let the car coast along in neutral for a moment.

Raise the arms the battle is near
Through the mud and waters clear
The blood is coloring the lands again
A sign of victory the wind will send

There's something fundamentally human about speed. All of these things we've built around us are insubstantial and transitory. I know grocery stores and churches and movie theaters in the abstract; they are something I see, not something I feel. Replace this thing with that thing and I would note it without passion.
Speed, though, speed is different. She's the most wonderful, awful lover you've ever known. Misuse her and she'll hospitalize you, but oh, the supreme, god-like thrill she imparts me with. It makes everything mundane in comparison. You no longer live for yourself after feeling the terror and joy of her embrace. The moments of your life become devoted to the next time you can feel yourself pressed into the seat, feel the wind whip your hair into your face. I loved her once, and ever since then I haven't stopped thinking about it.

Until we are reunited, and the ice and snow give way to the summer sun, I still have the memory.

Something Forgotten and Remembered

Once, when I was thirteen or fourteen, I was sitting at a picnic table in downtown Salt Lake City. It was July I think, the sun was beating down furiously, and I was very grateful for the shade the table's canopy provided.

I was downtown to help out with the sound equipment at an outdoor concert being held that Thursday. One of my Mom's old friends ran a company that did the sound for concerts, and so I figured I'd get a little experience in the music business and help him out with a few shows. I was waiting for the crew to arrive when a man came and sat down at the table with me.

He was in his sixties, with white, wispy, thinning hair. He was wearing those old 90's style wrap-around sunglasses, a white t-shirt, and some running shorts. In his right hand he held a cigar. We talked. I was a pretty shy, introverted little kid, so he did most of the talking.

He said he did something in medicine, he worked in the radiology department at the University of Utah Medical Center I think. He went over details of the business, recent equipment acquisitions and their prices, the people he worked with. Maybe he told me a few interesting stories about powerful magnets in X-Ray machines snatching watches off of the wrists of hapless passer-bys, or maybe I'm mixing that up with a different memory. I do remember, very distinctly, that he had a lot of advice. I listened raptly to what he said, making sure to note everything carefully. When the equipment truck arrived and I excused myself to unload it I remember thinking he was very wise.

The experience left me with one of those pleasant, soothing sensations in my chest. Part satisfaction, part enlightenment.

When I told Mom of my good fortune later that night, she said he was probably lying to me about working at the hospital. Per my description, he sounded like a transient to her. At the time I was deeply offended that she'd written off this experience of mine, although reflecting back on the memory, she was probably right.

I wonder if I followed his advice in the end.