it only took me 9,000 years to finish

the weather was nervous all day Saturday and I was graphically indecisive. and why not? up ahead of me was 75 odd miles of stretched steel and concrete and disassociated memory backlogged 4 long years from someplace I’d like to say I’ve never been. for a wedding that started at five, the reception at six, my decision to actually attend came sometime after I arrived at seven … nice place, cozy Lake Union views, ample parking. Despite these facts, it takes me twenty minutes to walk from the lot to the restaurant, a total difference of maybe 50 yards. some things take time and somewhere between honesty and loaded pistols I obscured myself as a subtle aberration, freeze dried and shrunk, sized to fit a small fraction of the myth nobody was expecting to come.

and now the entrance, unannounced and quiet and as short-lived as possible. walk in, dispose of the host, table 20, track and mark the bar, scan the crowd for cut-rate flags of red. nothing had my senses immediately floored, but like all outlaws and career expatriates my hand will never leave the trigger at my side. indeed. I spot my immediate destination and checked myself for open wounds; the scents of blood…. in the far distance sat the Man of the Hour and 20 lousy feet of open pasture hardwood infested with rank, bloodthirsty sportsmen and creepy-crawlies not yet scientifically identified … left, right, one, two I walked, toed the peripheral lines of sight laced with cardboard body cut-outs with cabernet painted wedding day faces smeared and set and out come the six-shooters … innocent by-standards; old man, woman and child, Badguy! Villain! CRACK CRACK … echoes and shell casings crack the floor as I sidestep my imagination, temporary asylum, holster those smoking canons, welcome back partner. draw the smile hello friend lady friend for life, doing fine, I brought your gift, over there the drink of water with the fiery red danc’n shoes, Lady Luck friend, caught hitchhiking, I brought her here just for you two, stick her once for me, marital duties, make the rounds, recognize the drill, emptied two rounds already, shake hands, a conversation to be continued left, right, one two. my god, walk on, search for shade and a fine ass and there’s a familiar face and Travis explodes into his trademark full-frontal attack. spring loaded and gladly welcomed, it has deterred any meaningless assault from all eyes and directions of the dance floor. didn’t think you’d show bets were laid down, you’re dating a pumpkin with persistent elbows, careful my bones are old, wine beer and vodka drinks, write what you know, excuse us as we cut a rug and barrel roll our way to the bar, eyes focused and grandiose.

There was room to breathe despite the swelling bodies all around and two drinks down it was time to make the best of my lack-luster appearance … one beard, two sweaters, one finally discarded, two shirts, one pair of checkered pants, one pair of sentimentally diseased Chuck Taylors and necessary supplies. earlier in the evening I had thought it a good idea to bring along a black sharpie I found that day at The House. in fact, I picked it up, set it back down and then changed my mind and went for it again asking, why not? there is no better way to assert yourself than with a Sharpie; bold yet tasteful, permanent but only if your paper. and sure enough, I had given myself a new look before even reaching Seattle, having almost died twice taking notes in heavy traffic. as a result, I marked myself with a small “X” right below the knuckle of the index finger of my left hand to remind myself to write something down when I finally came to a stop. one simple black x ... like the sound of a hundred rifles fired, a thought you can't forget. Travis, give me your damn arm. No, the other arm … no, the other side … put it here, no, here on my left so I can write on it … I need to find the alpha vein, give you the free pass, the lethal injection let loose so that you may be what you need to be without fear of reprimand … I’ll take care of the pumpkin. she stretched the urgency of our situation without words, but I was always careful not to compromise the purity of the product I was pushing. my man has faith in my judgment and so rightly I have faith in his, writing, “what’s wrong with a little temporary art?” down his left arm. beware. the conditioned looks of all these squares will come saddled with disgust but they will find themselves without ammunition … show them your arm and know that you now operate with full diplomatic immunity. go my son. and there was an understanding, ants hauling the weight of something, the Score, the inevitability of our roles in Everything in General. with his back turned and permission in his eyes, I took hold the hand crank of his spine and wound him like a cuckoo clock set to the Final Hour. the volume jumped and I thought I heard someone scream in the distance. turning back to my friend, smiling, I signed the deal and marked him with an X, set him loose, shirt sleeves rolled loaded and high, shackles kicked to the wall by the table.

there certainly was nothing static about the evening. between clandestine strikes on the wine supply and xeroxed conversations amongst old school chums, the mood of the reception bubbled lightly in cheap champagne glasses being passed around by the boatload. For the most part I was left alone. here and there people began to recognize the face for flesh as opposed to myth and exaggerated memory, and there is a slow drift in the prevailing winds as curious heads and tails politely imagine dragging their hello’s through the crowd, but never get past their food … somewhere near the back of the room there is a chasm that stretches just three inches off the wall from end to end to end to end resting calmly in the floor with a piece of stringy carpet in its mouth. I sit down next to it and watch myself out among the people … I say hello, it says the same and asks if I can give it a hand … just pull. from the middle of the dance floor I paced softly from side to side instinctively shifting weight from Chuck to Taylor and back to singing the rough baritone half of a pleasant conversation, I notice the how to carved into the wood. I look back over at myself in the corner and I nod and I know. all around me girlfriends and acquaintances are all clawing at the same inside source, the people from “those days” whoever they might be. well is it him or not ...? He’s the one from the stories? I don’t believe it. believe it baby, just look at how he’s standing.

I was prepared for the end. having dusted off an antique sense of bravado and false grandeur, all I could focus on were the cracks in the hardwood floor. did they know? just pull. this thought was repeated, repeated god damn't through every conversation. and I like to imagine, rather pretend, that I did yank on that piece of string until the whole building collapsed into the void, but that is a lie not even I can rightfully swing. I knew that I needed them all to assure me that my wrong-doings and ill-advised curiosity were all well worth the memories. I needed them for balance. I need you to pay me your no attention whatsoever for the rest of my immortal life, so that you can tell the grander stories and save me the trouble of actually having to write them ....

and so holding court for nobody in particular, another dancing drunkard ravaged by an open bar, I became one more nameless face as the whole scene played out as all weddings do. wild declarations of camaraderie. hand to mouth savage raids on the food tray. people too drunk to stand or make love. but someone would be animal fucking in the bathroom and needless to say, I myself will transfigure into an endless string of gorgeous cuss words and profanity so elevated and senseless, it would later be the direct cause of at least seven abortions on record. I would also be openly propositioned by a man after he misunderstood my innocent request to learn the south beach mambo. I felt like a daredevil among the amish. as for the rest of the evening, the details are sparse. I know that I kept continued company with Weimer the Jew, I know that he loaned me the point to this story. I would give it to you now, but he had it repossessed years ago when I couldn't cover the vigorish. but I can say without much thought, that if I made it home that night it was illegal and a righteous spectacular miracle … so who says the lord is fucking useless?