Something about Monday morning tells me that it was not going to be a pleasing day. I hastily sit up, and reach up to my top bunk to silence the screeching alarm clock. Almost instantly, I regret this course of action as my blood-starved brain begins to screech bitterly at me, as though he had just dumped his morning cup of coffee all over himself.
"Dude! What the hell do think you are doing? It's only 6:15 and you are already jumping around like a lunatic!"
I can picture the scene. A wrinkled gray mass, sporting a faded blue robe, bunny slippers, and a 5 o'clock shadow is hovering at a circular, lime-green kitchen table; a fresh cup from Starbucks dripping down his front. He speaks with a voice even scratchier than his “face.” Despite the lack of facial features, I can feel him boring his preverbal eyes into my soul. I throw my mind an imaginary rag to mop himself up with.
"Since when do you drink coffee?" I ask inquisitively.
He scoffs. "It's better than that caffeinated industrial waste you keep feeding me."
An empty can of Mountain Dew materializes from nowhere and comes hurtling toward me at a breakneck speed. I swat the incoming bogey away with ease, as a Saiyan would with an energy blast.
"At least you get cool superpowers with radioactive syrup," I matter-of-factly state, with a grin. "With sewage, all you get are stained teeth and bad breath."
"Peh. The ability to wear slippers, despite not having any feet to speak of, is a real superific power, all right."
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a knife rise into the air and begin to cut a stick of butter lying on the lime table. I read the brand name on the label: SARCASM.
"Look," my mind continues. "I've got stuff I need to do, so I'm gonna demonstrate another one of my magical abilities." A shape begins to protrude out of his side, and it gradually assumes the form of a human hand. Just as I am able to identify it, he snaps his fingers, and the scene washes away before my eyes.
I come back into reality as I know it, buried in my pillows, dizzier than Miss Lizzie. I can almost feel the artist of the anime series Rurouni Kenshin drawing his trademark swirls on my eyelids. I slowly crawl out of bed and begin my morning rituals. I flip on my television, seated on top of my dresser, and fumble in the dark, trying to locate my pants. The room slowly fills with light from the static on the screen, allowing me to navigate my way though the Pop-Tart wrappers, empty milk glasses, and various piles of laundry. I reach down to the floor, grab the small remote for my satellite box, and tune to channel 142: ESPNews. The Mike and Mike show comes into focus, and I half-heartedly listen to the hosts recap the weekend's football action. I find my jeans on the floor, pull them on, and run a belt through them. I grab a neatly folded shirt near the foot of my bed, and hoist it over my abnormally large skull. Noticing that I have a few extra minutes before I need to prepare for school, I collapse back onto the bed, and blissfully drift into a state of semi-consciousness. I hear the television yammering on in the background...something about Peyton Manning breaking a record Dan Marino set in the 80's...
Before I realize it, I am sitting on the couch in the family room, in front of my analogical bowl of Soylent Green: Frosted Flakes. My mother has just walked into the room, and she is preparing for her day of driving a high-low around a factory floor.
"I'm going to the store after work today," she proclaims. "Do you need anything?"
I hesitate for a moment as I prod my mental hamster, trying to get it to run the generator attached to its wheel.
"Nah, nothing special," I reply. I keep my eyes glued to my bowl of soggy, shredded cardboard pieces.
"What about gas money?"
Marvelous! How convenient! I had been trying to work up the courage to ask her for some for several days, but she saved me the trouble!
And now, it’s the time on Sprockets where we dance!
"Yeah, sure, I guess I could use some," I say, with the non-chalantness that only an 18-year-old could authentically produce.
She disappears, and comes back with a crisp twenty dollar note.
"Okay, I've got to go. Have a good day!" She begins to head out the back door.
I quickly swallow a mouthful of crunchy stuff in an effort to reply, but just barely get off a "Thanks, Mom. You too," as I feel an unchewed corn flake scrape against the inner lining of my esophagus. It feels like a razor blade sliding down my throat. Damn it, what else is going to happen today?
After finishing breakfast and stuffing the used bowl into the dishwasher, I take a glance outside to assess the weather conditions. Crap, there's frost on the ground, and that means there's frost on the car. Crap-crappity-crap-crap!
Under normal circumstances, this wouldn't be a problem, but I do not currently own a pair of thermal gloves. That means that I have to scrape the frost off my windshield while essentially being naked. And that sucks.
I meander back to my room, scoop my school belongings away from worshipping my stereo, and make my way to the back door. I step outside into the chilled morning atmosphere. Thankfully, the frost isn't as thick as I had originally imagined. I walk out to my car, sitting in its usual parking space: a pile of frozen mud. I reach out to the back door handle, and swing the door open. At this moment, I stare thoughtfully at the windshield from the inside. It doesn't take me long to realize the futility of performing any useful task in these conditions.
Screw it, I tell myself. I'll just use window-washer fluid. I'm not putting up with this. I throw my belongings into the back, close the door, and hop into the driver's seat. I flip on the ignition, and proceed to de-ice the windows. I activate window heaters all around, and stare absent-mindedly through the frost as the windshield wipers slowly dissolve it away into nothingness. I shift the car into overdrive, spin out of the driveway, and begin my trek to another lovely day at SC4.
I set my radio tuner to 101.1 FM, and listen to the Drew and Mike show on WRIF. I happen to catch them wrapping up the sports, and again, my ears are graced with the news of how spectacular Peyton Manning’s season has been. I smirk to myself. Apparently the lack of a decent Colt defense has eluded many sportscasters.
The journey to school ends, uneventfully, in the parking lot. I swing into a parking space near the college center, and kill the engine. I hesitate for a moment, out of exhaustion. I really don’t want to step out of the car. It feels as though someone turned up the earth’s gravity to an extreme. My breathing feels heavy and labored. My arms hang uselessly at my side. My eyelids can barely remain open, and my eyes water heavily from the strain of trying.
BeepBeepBeep!
SHIT! I feel my heart skyrocket into the back of my mouth. Stupid watch! I can’t believe I forgot to turn that damned alarm off. I am reminded of why I never carry a cell phone around with me. Those freaking things are enough to send a man to an early grave. Fortunately, that’s the jump start I needed, as I suddenly find myself walking along the road with school supplies strapped to my back, headed for my English class.
Upon entry into the classroom, I begin yet another mundane routine. Put the schoolbag on the floor. Dig out a pen. Sign the attendance sheet. Hand in the essay that I spent all weekend writing. Flop into my chair. Daydream about thirty-foot robots beating the sheet metal off of each other...
“James,” a soft yet shrill voice calls to me. “I’m sorry, but I can’t accept this. The essay was supposed to be about a decision you made.” I stare into the eyes of my English teacher, and then to the paper the holds out to me.
Excuse me? What do you mean you can’t accept this? How can you say that to me? I’m the deity of this class! My writing has become the standard by which this class is judged! I have spent the entire weekend authoring an unparalleled piece of historically based literature, and you are telling me it isn’t good enough?
This cannot be happening.
I can’t believe I overlooked the criteria. I spent the entire fugging weekend on this blasted thing, and now I have to come up with another one? Curse you, creativity!
As the class begins, the teacher begins to use her literary powers to their greatest extent by critiquing another student’s essay in front of the class. I ignore her. Instead, I concentrate on what I am going to do about my essay.
Okay, genius. You just built the Titanic, and it rammed an iceberg and sank. What’s next? I pull out a blank piece of paper and begin to jot down ideas. Decisions...decisions...okay, what decisions have I made lately?
“You decided to get up this morning,” a familiar, scratchy voice calls from somewhere.
“Oh, finally finished drinking our coffee, have we?” I retort. “Nah, the act of rising out of bed can be said in three words. I’m not going to try to make a formal, five-page essay out of it.”
“Okay...oh, wait! You told me you were going to get gas tomorrow.”
“Dude...seriously,” I sigh in exasperation. “How am I supposed to write five pages about pumping petrol? You drive a car around for a while, burn fuel, and take it to a gas station when it gets empty.”
“Hmm...Well, one topic discussed in class was why you chose to take classes at SC4. You could always do that.”
“Oh come on! Even you know that the only reason is because I have no money.”
“Jeez! Take it easy. I’m only trying to help, you know.” Great, thanks to the rising guilt from yelling at myself, I have a BLT of emotions. At least I know I won’t go hungry today.
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I know I’m being a jerk, but I really don’t want to write another essay. God, I’m one of the most creative people in my gene pool. Why can’t I make this work?”
“I don’t blame you, kid. Trying to write about your life is like trying to draw water out of a dry well.”
Wait. What?
“What do you mean by a dry well?”
“Heh,” he scratchily scoffs. “Take a serious look at your life. You are an 18-year-old college student. You do nothing but study for meaningless examinations and play video games all day long. You are so introverted that you are socially stunted. You have no friends, and you interact with no one outside of the school environment. You could die tomorrow and no one, besides your mother, would even realize you were gone. It’s no wonder why you are having such a hard time with this. Your life, if that’s what you call it, sucks.”
Wow. I’ve heard about conversing with oneself, but this is ridiculous. A figment of my own imagination just filled me in on how utterly worthless my life has been. It’s no wonder why I hated writing in my early school days. Many writing assignments in grade school are related to oneself in some way. I detested drawing topics from this well, but I never understood why until now. I was afraid that if I kept drawing from it, I would hit the bottom and bring up nothing but dirt.
I reflect upon the events of the morning, and my daily routine. I’m forced to agree with my mind. I do nothing but study and game. That’s it. I could sit here and spit out essays on useless game tactics and techniques I’ve accumulated over the years, but for how long? There are only games I play, and only so many ways to play them. It wouldn’t take long for the mud that I’m bringing up to dry out and become dust.
I think I’ve hit rock bottom. If a drought comes in, I’m screwed. Therefore, there’s only one thing to do. I jump over the edge, and slowly work my way down to the moist bottom. The only way to get more water in here is to try to find an underground spring.
“Hey!” I call up to the top. I notice the familiar gray mass hover over the opening.
“What’cha need, boss?” he inquires.
“Toss me that shovel up there. I think it’s time I got to work."
Jim,
That is some morning, found you through a search of poker, but i'm still not sure why. You're a great writer by the way. Have a great morning tomorrow!
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