Wasted and laid-out transients litter my path as I shuffle one foot in front of the other down the narrow, shit-stained cement sidewalks of Downtown's business sector - in a desperate attempt to put my ghosts behind me at three o'clock in the goddamned morning.
I keep walking.
There is no recipe book for absolution, and the carbonated sins eating away at my bones are only getting heavier with each and every step I take. I've become a machine. A machine designed to follow orders. But the operator of this machine does not kindly compute the figures.
Little do I know, but this internal clash of external ideology will eventually lead to the complete and total collapse of my sanity. I will break. And it will not be pretty.
But I'm not a prophet by nature, and I can surely not see the future. To offset the changing tides, I have become accustomed to taking these long midnight treks away from campus. The things I see...
There's this old karate dojo on Holly Street with an arrow sticking out the side of its steeple. The building used to be a church. I've heard stories about young pupils in the martial arts being challenged to scale the roof and retrieve the arrow, but so far none of them have been able to get it.
A few blocks down from my dormitory is a line of houses lit up with blacklights and disco dots. They give off a nauseating smell. A bizarre concoction of black mold, marijuana, greek-style gyros, and axe body wash. Every now and again a flash of light and a rousing "What the fuck?" tells me who's watching the football game on DVR. I could honestly give a shit about football.
There's another building I'm particularly fond of - the Upfront Theatre. Oftentimes I stop and stare at this building as I'm walking across the bridge over the train tracks down to the waterfront - like I'm doing right now. I look like a jackass.
I probably look pretty drunk too. But I'm not drunk. I haven't had anything to drink in a year and a half. Not that I drink much anyways.
It's just three in the morning. And I've got a test tomorrow. But like I said, I'm on the verge of a mental collapse. So, the staggering and the stopping and staring and the going is probably pretty normal for someone in that position. I couldn't tell you for sure, this is my first time sampling the glories and wonders of insanity.
Suddenly I'm in the shop. It's the very first time in my life that I've ever seen a shop that is open for twenty-four hours a day, and by the Gods I'm making the most of it. I'm only 180 pounds, but this newfound ability to eat anything that I want in the middle of the night is going to assure my sharp rise in caloric wealth.
"You got any money?" This money-hungry fiend has asked me the same damned question every night straight for six nights in a row. And I'm about ready to tell him to go shove his head in a blender and turn it on full power.
"You know what?" I say to him. "In that shop right there, on the Television, is a man by the name of Piers Morgan. I want you to go home and google Piers Morgan. The next time you see me, tell me everything that you find out, and if I am satisfied with your answer, I will give you some money."
I never saw him again.
Ham and eggs. This restaurant is another one of those 24 hour establishments that I had never possibly conceived of in the damp and dank mornings of my childhood on Whidbey. There's this drunk guy banging his hand on the side of this pinball machine in the corner of the diner. He's banging and shouting "dammit, machine!" over and over again like a vinyl player on repeat.
This night is interesting. And this town is the imperfect mix of neon crosses and kleptomaniacs, it never gets boring. One time I even ran into this guy tripping balls on some shit, he put my hand on his chest and tried to convince me that he was on a mission from God to rid the world of its shadow creatures and demons.
Fuck.
I'm lost. I have no fucking idea where I am. I recognize these houses, but the problem is that every house in this fucking town looks the same as the last one. It's a giant Greek village, and the entire town is the fraternity.
HONK. There goes the coal train. On its way to fulfill its mission: the TPP. Fuck this coal train, and FUCK the TPP. It is the death of humanity. We are as a species condemning ourselves to Hell as long as we use Coal.
It's hard to get a decent night's sleep on this side of town. That fucking train rolls by every single night at the same time, and slightly contributes to the insanity that spreads through its masonry.
I'm back at my bed. Standing there, looking at the wall of my dorm room. It's adorned with a giant map of the United States of America, and atop each state are the faces of Mitt Romney and Barrack Obama.
They look over me as I pull the covers over me and shut off the lights. Goodnight, restless U.
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