Life is fucking short. Mortality is a bitch. I realized those things recently. I work at O'Hare International Airport in Chicago, ORD on your luggage tags. I'm a baggage chucker. I'm the asshole that mishandles and wrecks your luggage all day long. A guy I work(ed) with, Bernie Jacobs, died yesterday. A severe hemorrhage in the artery at the base of his brain. An aneurysm. He's dead. I was with him yesterday, and hours later, he's gone. We're born, and then we start dying.
I got a postcard from the future today. On the front of it there is a dark skinned girl wearing a flower necklace and a grass skirt. Above her head in bright orange letters outlined in yellow it says, "Aloha from Hawaii!" On the back, in black pen, someone had scrawled:
Transgression is progression. Let go.
It was dated six days from today, Sunday. I was confused by it, to say the least. The girl on the front doesn't stop smiling, it's annoying. Processing all of this was not going well for my head and the all-too-familiar grinding started. The rusty gears of my mind strained and scratched against one another in an attempt to make sense of the present events. Instead of giving in to my rationale, I did what I do best. I grabbed the clear brown plastic bottle off the counter in the kitchen and screwed the child-proof cap off. The comforting sound of pills colliding with container soothed me instantly. I poured out six chalk white Vicodin on the table. I hesitated.
Wilson, Sam was printed on the side of the bottle. My grandpa Sam died 6 years ago. Through a clerical error, he was never reported as deceased. Thus, his social security checks continued to come and his open Vicodin prescription started to become extremely lucrative.
I poured out three more for good measure and moved to the refrigerator. Grasping the handle, I tugged lightly until the seal broke and the door swung open, revealing a rainbow of sorts within. Ten or so jugs of brightly colored drink sat arranged upon the refrigerator shelves, the contents of which were concocted with extreme care and precision. I clutched the handle of a pitcher that contained a bright red liquid. I filled a tall glass to the brim, stooping and closing one eye to see the meniscus of the drink, softly curving. A smile crept across my face, slow at first, until it became a giant grin racing between each ear. It was a smile of anticipation. Let me explain something. Some people are passionate about knitting or cooking or Sudoku. I like pills, and I fucking love Kool-Aid.
I took the pills in one hand and the glass of Cherry Kool-Aid in the other. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. The pills slid down my throat, the cold liquid chasing them in close pursuit. I reclined in my La-Z-Boy, letting the wave of nothingness engulf me.
When I was younger and we lived in Virgina my family would go to the beach a short drive from our house. I would search ceaselessly for shells. When I found them, I would press the open end of the shell to my ear and listen to the ocean. These days I can hear it whenever I want, if I take enough pills. Nine should do the trick.
Somebody has a case of the Mondays.