My Life

Tires of the bus begin to vibrate as it hits a rough patch of asphalt on the street below. The vibrations are sent through the frame to the floor, from the floor to my seat. My teeth chatter in my head as I roll over, finally giving up all of my attempts to sleep. The ripe scent of urine runs through the air and stomps through my nostrils, the smell so strong I can almost taste it. I wonder if the homeless lady behind me wet herself, or if people just start smelling like piss after they don’t shower for a while.

I look outside and try to focus my mind on the sense of vision rather than the olfactory senses which are currently overwhelming my brain. The person in front of me is drinking a coffee, the girl across from me is putting on lotion which smells like cucumber melon, each of the two blending together with the urine to create the smell of a port-o-potty which has been sprayed with air freshener.  Car after car drives by, each one coming and leaving differing destinations.I left from Big Bear Lake, a small town in southern California and am traveling through Santa Cruz on my way back to San Francisco.

The bus pulls up to a stop at a strange station and I begin to wonder if it is my stop… I sure hope not. A few people come onto the bus, each one paying in quarters. A pretty blond girl who looks a little doped out, maybe one who just shot some heroine or snorted a line of blow. I quickly notice the black lines underneath her eyes as if she has not rested in a few days, her skin clings so tightly to her body due to weight loss that her cheek bones are perfectly defined. Probably into crack, I think to myself. As she continues past me, her body creates a slip-stream of marijuana rich air which hits me so strongly I feel as if I need a shower.

“Mt. Hermon and Spring Lakes- Graham Plaza.” The automated voice of some bitchy middle aged woman rolls through the air into each of our eardrums. Me, the homeless lady, the doped up girl, the two gay guys in front of me… We all hear the same way- We all hear the same thing. Everyone feels like such an individual, each person believes they are the exception to the statistic, as if they are a lone ranger battling against conformity, but they fail to realize that by purposefully attempting to non-conform, they are conforming. A paradox of individuality which none of us will ever escape. We’re all generally a combination of all the same parts and things. We are a brain which requires oxygen, a heart which pumps blood, muscles which cannot run without glucose, and we are all people.

The high ring a phone makes when you’re calling someone reverberates toward my eardrum. I squint my eyes as the light from my cell phone shines into them. I feel the blankets wrapped up in my body. These blankets are made to keep me warm. The insulate the air so that it repels the cold and retains the heat which is created from my body temperature. It serves almost like a blimp, holding air in while keeping other air out. Why can’t the blankets make me any warmer inside?This makes me think of beauty for some reason. Everyone does whatever they can to make themselves look better on the outside, but they fail to realize this does nothing for what is inside, for what truly matters.

It rings for the fourth time, and I begin to feel my stomach drop. She’s not going to answer…

“Hello…” Her tired voice  sends a gust of heat throughout my phone. I feel my body temperature rise as if fire has been blown throughout my veins. I woke her up, I figured I would.

“You okay? What’s up?” She probably says this cause she saw the time and is worried I’m calling because something has gone wrong. Ironically, I feel as if it’s quite the opposite.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I just didn’t think I could live another second without hearing your voice. Go back to bed.”

“Okay. I love you. Goodnight.”

How can her voice make me feel this way? I wish I could tell her the way she makes me feel, how much I love the way she makes me feel. I feel the knots in my stomache loosening, it amazes me that they still clench up when I hear her voice.

I roll over. The blankets seem to be holding in a lot more heat than they were a minute ago.

Beauty. By definition, this person fits it perfectly. Are they a boy or a girl? I laugh, you know someone is truly a God when you know they are beautiful regardless of sex. Short messy dark hair, dark blue skinny jeans, a coat that looks like it’s from H&M, and a pair of battered Converses. Somehow, every piece of clothing looks like it fits perfectly, each one made specially to emphasize the beauty. Not conventional or traditional beauty, but pure beauty. I look to the fingernails and realize it’s a girl.

I look at the bac-pac on her lap, it says CAL on it. My eyes shift upward to stare at the face I have been searching for. Every piece of her face looks like it was perfectly crafted and mixed together, each peice picked carefully to bring out the next. She turns to me and our eyes meet. Our gaze lasts a few seconds longer than most people’s, neither of us smile, but search into one another. Each of us gazing with such intent as if we were scanning one another’s souls. We look away.

An old woman walks up and the girl gives up her seat. She stands where I can feel her back pressed against my side. She stands around 8 inches shorter than me. I stare into her reflection in the window in front of me. A perfect image of her illuminating in the glass. She’s staring at me. We stand staring for what feels like minutes, but could not have been more than 5 seconds. It feels as if time has froze. We look away. I look back, she looks back, and we both smile, never breaking eye contact.

“SF State next stop.” The voice comes over the loudspeaker. I feel the train come to a stop, I break eye contact and brush her back as I walk by her toward the door. With one foot outside in the cold, I feel something grab onto my hand. I quickly turn my head and see her hand touching mine. She pulls it away as my eyes meet hers. The world goes silent. I watch her lips break open and closed as she mouths the word “bye”.

“Bye…” I mouth. The door begins to close and I step back. I stand unable to move, my face inches away from the train as I watch it carry away my touch with perfection.

Thoughts and things running through

my head. Some of them are old, some new,

some silly, some not. But the one which

stands out most, is an image of you.

An image which dances, yet haunts me.

Roots planted deep in the soil, a tree

growing, growing, growing. The seed

bursts from the soil. Forever it’s free.

Freedom, freedom, freedom at last,

oppression and hate are things of the past,

for now I have grown beyond the grasp

of my roots, one looks down at lengthy shadows cast

over the grass. My grass is greener than the grass

on the other side. My grass is greener than the grass

on any side. My grass grows free, next to a tree,

in the sunlight of you.

A young man named John received a parrot as a gift. The parrot had a bad attitude and an even worse vocabulary. Every word out of the bird’s mouth was rude, obnoxious and laced with profanity. “Fuck this,” and “fuck that” seemed to be some of the only words the bird would squawk out of his little beak. John tried and tried to change the bird’s attitude by consistently saying only polite words, playing soft music and anything else he could think of to “clean up” the bird’s vocabulary. It appeared that nothing in his power could do a thing to change it. Try as he might, the bird still cursed about.

Finally, John was fed up and began to yell at the little parrot. The parrot began to shout back, and the entire situation evolved into a five minute battle of curse words. The parrot stepped over the line, however, and  John grabbed the parrot and began to shake him with all his strength. This did nothing, the bird simply got more emotional and his attitude continued to worsen. John, in desperation, threw up his hand, grabbed the bird and put him in the freezer thinking that the cold would simply scare the parrot so badly he would stop. For a few minutes the parrot squawked and kicked and screamed “fuck you” to the extent of his vocals. Then suddenly there was total quiet. Not a peep was heard for over a minute.

Fearing that he’d hurt the parrot, John quickly opened the door to the freezer, the parrot calmly stepped out onto John’s outstretched arms and said, “I believe I may have offended you with my rude language and actions. I’m sincerely remorseful for my inappropriate transgressions and I fully intend to do everything in my power in order to correct my rude and unforgivable behavior.”

John was stunned at the change in the bird’s attitude. As he was about to ask the parrot what had made such a dramatic change in his behavior, the bird continued, “May I ask what the turkey did?” 

Many of you avid readers have read (and enjoyed) my initial blog post, in which I began to express my hatred of public restrooms. You all spammed it, stumbled it, and showed it to your friends (do it again, do it again, do it again!). I got many e-mails asking for an update on my emotions, and honestly, they sufficed. That is until today, which leads me into yet another journey into terror, horror, and utter disgust; the return of my abhorrence…. The Restroom Dilemma.

My eyelids close and I hold them shut for a few seconds longer than normal. I open them wide, one of those eye stretches where your eye brows raise and make your forehead crinkle. I’ve been staring at my computer for three hours trying to write a story. I look to the right and see two empty water bottles and an empty Mountain Dew can.  Uh-oh, I think my bladder is about to explode. 

I reach for my bathroom keys and drop them in the pocket of my newly acquired, 140 dollar white jeans which took me three months to find. I quickly walk out of my dorm room, not hesitating to close it myself, it slams and an echo rings throughout the hallway. Normally, I wouldn’t be so inconsiderate, but my pocket snake is about to spit up all over my jeans.

I power walk down the hallway, the carpet feels funny underneath my socks. They’re sort of thin and the carpet pokes through and kind of tickles my toes with every step. I use my key to unlock the door, it lets off a loud SQUEEK because our dorm building is too cheap to spray it with WD-40. My feet fall onto the tile of the bathroom, it’s cold and it kind of turns my feet numb on contact. The windows of the room are open at all times regardless of temperature, it’s our way of diluting the horrid stench of human deposits which intertwine in the air around us. I don’t understand it, it still smells like shit– just cold shit.

By this point I’m running, I swing open the door to my favorite stall on the far left, I let it close on its own because I don’t have time to lock it, the anticipation is building like a young boy’s seconds before he loses his virginity. I unbutton, unzip, and let the liquids flow. It’s not just a normal pee, it’s one of those which leave you with an open mouth and a feeling of warmth and delight. I can feel the heat raising through my body, particularly through my sock covered feet. Wait a second… Why do my feet feel warm? My eyes look down in curiosity. My white socks are stained yellow as I stand in a puddle of warm piss. Not just a few drops which fell off at the end of someone’s water hose, no, a puddle. It looks as if someone just aimed straight down onto the tile and emptied their tank.

“Oh fuck!” I scream in reaction, and I feel my muscles constrict then convulse, my body leaves the ground as my legs force me to jump out of Lake Urine. Fearing to lose my balance, I take both of my hands and use them to center my weight, forgetting that I was using Righty to aim my pocket rocket.

My loaded Super-Soaker falls down limply and begins shooting its stream of fury straight down. I watch in horror as my new, previously white, jeans get stained with a jet-stream of my own bodily fluids. I scream and reach down, but my attempts are in vain. By the time I re-aim my shotgun, the battle has already been lost.

My head falls in defeat as I begin the walk of shame, my wet fleet splooshing and splashing all over tile. I walk over to the trash-can and remove my socks like a defeated knight removing his armor, head hung in shame and embarassment. I drop them with a loud “PLOP” into the black bag, and sit on the counter to wash my urine covered feet in the sink. The stench flows up and punctures my nostrils.

As I begin to pump soap onto my hands in hopes of disinfecting my feet from whatever horrid and rotten diseases are covering them, I hear the door SQUEEK open from its hinges. I look up, and of course, it’s a pretty girl I’ve been trying to get the courage to ask out. To my amazement, the “Men” sign on the door continues to be a suggestion rather than a requirement.  She looks at me with an interrogative facial expression and I look up with the shocked look of a deer in headlights.

“What in the world are you doing?”

“Cleaning a stranger’s piss off my feet.” I allow a brief moment to pass. “If I were you, I wouldn’t use the stall to the far left.” I drop my head and continue scrubbing away my misery.

Moral of the story? Never forget your shoes.

His pen touches the paper, the ink smears in a little dot and quickly dries. He pulls up the tip and begins tapping it on the paper. *Tap*Tap*Tap

Extinguished. Tired. Weary. Emptied. Listless.

*Tap*Tap*Tap. His eyes travel around his barren room, desolate, cold, lonely.

Desolate. Cold. Lonely. *Tap*Tap*Tap

A soft breeze gently blows in through the cracked window, the frozen air chills his body. A shiver runs from the bottom of his back, tickling his spine as it quickly pulses through. It reaches his neck and he jumps. *Tap*Tap*Tap

“Ice whispers through the wind, ‘You must come’, tingling his feelings and leaving him numb…” *Tap *Tap *Tap “Fuck it. I can’t do this bullshit.”

He drops his pen into a door, and slides the window closed. He puts his head in his hands and looks down with closed eyes. How can one write when there is nothing inside?

The man scrambles about his room looking for something to say, something which will help him feel meaningful. Something which will give him something to say, anything to say. His mind races through the items and sounds, the smells and senses. Nothing. He walks back to his desk, grabs his pen, *Tap*Tap*Tap

It feels as if some chthonic power has entered his body and grabbed hold of his heart. As if it is squeezing each vein, controlling the pace, forcing it to beat quicker, quicker.

He looks around for anything which can help him, his back is pinned against a wall. He looks up toward the blade of a knife, inching closer and closer to his neck. He was crawling away at first, but now he is stuck. He has crawled himself into a corner while trying to escape. Either kill, or die. Heart beats quicker, quicker.

He feels tears coming to his eyes, he looks up and stares into the eyes of his attacker, the water blurs his vision. It is a girl, a girl he once knew better than anyone in the world. Everyday that passes she inches the blade closer and closer to his throat, each second trying to make him fear. His fear flows off his body and drives her closer. Heart beats quicker, quicker.

He stares into the eyes of the one he once loved, the one he would have died for. Now he will die because of her, but not for her. She lowers her blade from his throat, it is not his life she wants; it is his soul. She hears his heart beating quicker, quicker.

The blade touches his chest, the cold metal makes him shiver. He feels the blade sinking into his skin, he listens as a whimper of pain escapes his body. Pain not from the dagger, but from looking into her eyes and the sight leaving him empty. A whimper of severance, the pain of letting go. His heart continues quicker, quicker.

She cuts a hole in his chest, sets the knife down, and pushes her hand deep inside the hole. Her fingertips stop centimeters from the bloody clump of muscles people call a soul. She looks up into his eyes.

“The second you accept it, I will go.” The voice he once knew echoes in the alley, back and forth; he waits till it fades away. Words escape his mouth, eerie and cold. Heartless, yet unforced.

“You can hurt me no longer. I feel nothing.”

She pulls her hand outside of him, steps back, and disappears.

 Her eyes light up my body, escalating my disposition and reviving every sense of emotion I have ever felt. Unique emeralds, shining as only perfectly polished gems can shine. They look into me and make my body fall apart; it feels as if her eyes lead straight down to the depths of her soul, eyes which reveal as well as analyze, I feel as if everything I have ever done is being spoken to her. She is the Orchid in my Garden of Eden. She is my Orchid.

A faint smiles brightens her face, she breaks eye contact with me and looks away. I force myself to look away.

It’s as if some unknown force climbed into the hearts of these people and ripped away any amount of happiness which was inside. The more I look around, the more I realize how unlikely a smile is. Everyone is sitting in their seats on the public train, faces strewn with frowns, not the frown when something has just happened that is bad, but the frown that seems to plague our souls as our lives continue to move on. I think about Orchid and realize I would look like them if she weren’t next to me.

The buildings fly by, passing one by one until they are washed away into the realm of nothingness. If a house is out of my view, if anything is out of my view, do they truly exist? Someone asked if I ever wondered if all of this world is simply a fragment of my mind, nothing but my imagination losing control. I turn back to my Orchid and realize it is not. I am not clever enough, smart enough, nor creative enough to create something like her. Her blond hair falls down to caress her face, each strand perfectly crafted as if they were shaped through the hands of God himself, shaped as a lifelike image to represent the statue in the Stoddard Temple. She is my Dominique, my Fraternity, my everlasting hope for beauty. She is a taste of perfection.

I wonder if I should run away, never see her again. She will always remain that perfect image, one true fragment of perfection. If I get to know her, this perception will change, but if I leave her forever, for the rest of my existence, I will know that there is something perfect out there. The only thing in the world who won’t disappoint me. Forevermore as my perfect Orchid, grown from the ground, green emeralds crafted deep inside its petals.  If I abandon her now, there will always be that chance at perfection, if I stay, I will probably be disappointed once again.

We seek perfection for the longevity of our experiences on this Earth. We are disappointed time and time again, day after day, month after month, and year after year; I’m so tired of being disappointed. I look into her eyes and freeze in place, the smile opens up her petals as if she is blooming in Spring. Will my flower wilt like the rest, or have I found one that will bloom over and over again, forevermore to be that perfect flower I can plant in my garden and never, ever lose. They say change is inevitable, but maybe she can prove them wrong.

*Ring, *Ring, *Ring

(Stupid music plays in background) Hi! You’ve reached WellsFargo’s Telephone Service. We are proud to serve you! If you would like to listen to account information, press 1, if you would like to make a phone transfer, press 2, if you would like to… 

10 minutes later

If you would like to talk to an operator, please press 0 now. That’s a great thing to put last! It’s like the person who was making this was like, “Well, the majority of people are going to be calling the bank to talk to a person, so let’s fuck with them and make them sit there for 10 minutes.”

I pull my phone away from my face and press 0. Please hold, your call is important to us. Oh yeah, that’s why you put me on hold.

“Hewo sur, can ay git yur name pweese sur?” Oh jesus christ, and I thought the automated bitch was bad, at least she spoke English.

“Travis Johnson.”

“Thank ya’ sur. Wut yoo cawing abowt, sur?

“I opened a checking account a while ago for online purchases and never recieved my card, but it says that I withdrew 200 dollars using that card from an ATM machine.”

“Yessur. This wuzzn’t yoo hoo did dis, sur?”

“No, it wasn’t.” Why the fuck would they hire someone who doesn’t speak English for an English speaking telephone job? I can’t imagine what they do at interviews for this. It seems fairly straight forward.

Sir, can you read this line for me?

Yes, it says hello sir, how can I be of service to you today.

Hired! What about you sir?

Ay phink. Hewo sur, wut ca’ I du fo’ yoo, sur?

Not hired!

Where in this process did this man get hired? I don’t know a simpler job to find someone qualified for it, or an easier subject to test someone on. But still, they insist on hiring the one applicant who speaks English about as well as Bush runs a country.

Moral of the story? If you want to hire someone to speak on a phone for you, you should probably hire someone who speaks English.