You're in my blood like holy wine

Another sleepless night, chain-smoking and living in the past.

I thought maybe if I wrote about my past, I could put it to rest, somehow. So, here goes:

Six months ago, on any given Thursday, my alarm would sound at 5:30 am. It was the one my parents bought me for Christmas last year. The sound was piercing, and a little helicopter-like propeller would fly up into the air. The only way the turn it off was to retrieve the propeller and place it back on the clock. Justin would wake up, slightly freaked out, every single time. I'd give him a kiss on the forehead and tell him to go back to sleep.

Then I'd reluctantly hop in the shower while Justin would pick out my outfit for the day. I'd always be unhappy with the one I chose the night before, and he was better at fashion than me, anyway. When I got out of the shower and came back into the bedroom, he'd be sound asleep. I'd watch him for a little while before I'd give him a kiss on the cheek, tell him I loved him, and rush out the door to work.

The guard at the gate knew me personally after a year and a half. He'd say, "Mr. Benjamin, have a good day." I would.

The day would consist of rushing around the clinic, fixing everyone's issues, whether they be computer or life-related. In between jobs you could usually find me out in the smoking gazebo, chatting with the ladies about life, interior decorating, the weather, love, families, politics. Rosemary, Karla, Pam, Cindy, Wendie, Janine, Julie. God, I miss that gazebo.

On my lunch break, I'd pick up Justin, take him to work, tell him to have a great day, and then pick up some Wendy's or Arby's on my way back.

Thursday was training day for the 78th Medical Group, which meant patients were not scheduled after noon. Sometimes we'd have food out back. Everyone knew me, and everyone loved me. I loved them. Before I got my job, I would've never imagined that some of my best friends would be doctors, nurses, and military officers.

After work, I'd go home and take a nap. Justin's call would wake me up, and after half an hour of stumbling around, half-asleep, I'd rush to pick him up. I was usually late. Then we'd go out to eat, and I'd spend entirely too much money on dinner, which I would inevitably regret a few days before my next paycheck. It was worth it, though.

What happened? Why did I start hating my life all of the sudden? Maybe I was bored, maybe the medication was the culprit. Who knows. All I know is that I replay those memories over and over in my mind when I'm sitting alone at night.

Lately I spend most of my time missing things--not just those years of my life. I miss my childhood, my grandmother, theorizing with Kate in Savannah, karaoke at Amagi's in Hollywood with Heather, and the front porch of Aglago in Silverlake.

It seems that I'm always running. The benefit of this is that I'm always creating new, wonderful memories with different people. The downside is that when I run again, I have more to miss. Maybe I need someone to run with me. Maybe I need to learn to settle down and build a home for myself. I don't know.

What I do know is that I wouldn't trade these memories for anything in the world--well, except for maybe being able to relive them. It hurts so much to lose people you care about.

While I'm not religious, if Heaven existed, I wouldn't care what it looked like. My only wish would be that everyone I'd ever loved would be there, with me, forever.

cicadas and fireflies

A friend of mine from LA spent two days with my family and me. He is traveling to New York on his motorcycle, and he's never been east of the Mississippi.

The first night he was here, he was amazed at the sight of fireflies and the sound of cicadas in my backyard. I took him to the river, where we hiked through a dry creek bed and took pictures in a field of corn. It was beautiful seeing someone experience something for the first time--something I've taken for granted my entire life.

I have to admit I'm a little sad now that he's gone. It was nice not being lonely for a little bit. Sure, I have my family. They're great people, despite their oft-negative quirks. But they're not the type of people I would feel comfortable with sharing my deepest thoughts. I doubt they would even understand some of the ideas that brew in my mind.

So now I'm sitting, alone, in the back porch swing, listening to the chorus of cicadas and lazily watching the light show of the fireflies.

I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow. I feel as though I'm stuck in a time rift between memory and fantasy.

Page One of One

BEN walks into a convenience store in the middle of nowhere and cashes a $7 check dated three months prior. The camera follows him inside and pans beside him while he's waiting in line behind an old farmer wearing overalls, who is in the process of purchasing a pack of Marlboro Reds from the counter clerk. BEN taps his foot impatiently as the two locals carry on a dreadfully slow conversation about the weather and the Walgreens pharmacy that is being built on the grounds of an antebellum plantation house, which was recently demolished downtown. Finally, he makes it to the front of the line.

CASHIER

Hey sugar, where've you been off to?

BEN

California. I just got back.

CASHIER

Nice to be home, huh? I bet ya mama and daddy are glad to have ya. You just missed your uncle.

BEN

Oh really? Could I get a pack of....Marlboro Milds? I figured I'd cash this check here since it would cost more in gas to drive to the bank.

The cashier cashes the check and hands him his cigarettes and three dollars and some change. BEN places the change in his pocket and smiles a half-smile.

BEN

Well, good to see you.

CASHIER

You too, baby. Come back to see us.

BEN walks out the door into the setting sun. He hurriedly opens his pack of cigarettes, discards the cellophane onto the ground and lights up. After the first drag, an observable amount of tension sheds from his face as his closes his eyes and leans against the hood of his parents' 1994 Champagne colored Buick LeSabre. After a few brief moments, he opens his eyes and watches as an obviously underage high school student comes out of the store backwards while yelling obscenities at the clerk.

BOY

Hey cuz, can I have a cigarette?

BEN

How old are you?

BOY

Eighteen.

BEN

Right.

BEN fishes a cigarette out of his pack and hands it to the boy with a smirk. The boy runs off and jumps in a car with his buddies. BEN, high on nicotine and smiling gently, watches as the car drives away. He then sighs, extinguishes his cigarette onto the pavement with his flip-flop and hops back into the car. He pulls out and drives down the road while scanning through never-ending country and gospel stations on the radio. He finally, annoyed, stops the radio on 92.7 and sings the last few verses of the Rolling Stones' “Sympathy for the Devil” as he pulls into the Huddle House parking lot. He enters the diner and glances at the two people standing behind the counter, looking incredibly bored. A woman with short curly bleached blond hair in her 70s cleans off the table next to the entrance with a filthy torn rag. Without looking in his direction, she greets him.

WAITRESS

How are you doin? You want a water?

BEN

A water and a coffee, please ma'am.

WAITRESS

Coffee too? (She seems oddly excited about this. BEN nods and smiles.)

BEN walks to the back of the restaurant and sits in a booth in front of a two-way mirror. It was his spot in high school. He glances at the Grab-a-Toy machine that replaced the jukebox that he had remembered so fondly. Number 127 was what he always played—Alison Krauss's “When You Say Nothing at All”.

The WAITRESS brings three napkins, a spoon, a bowl of non-dairy creamers, a cup of semi-warm coffee, and a tall glass of ice water. She places the items in front of him.

BEN

I think I'll just have coffee, if that's okay.

WAITRESS

Sure, honey. (She walks off.)

BEN watches as three elderly women stare at him out of the corner of their eyes. Being in a small town, he assumed that they knew his parents. The conversation was inaudible, although he strained to hear it. He opens his laptop and begins to type. Obviously having writer's block, he looks up a phone number in one phone as he dials it on another. Someone answers.

BEN

Hey sugar! Guess where I am? ..... No, I'm in Georgia..... Cochran....It's a long story. Hold on, let me go outside so I can talk.

BEN takes a sip of his water and rushes outside, lights up a cigarette, and begins pacing up and down the sidewalk.

BEN

Hey, I found this check you gave me when I was cleaning out my car. Is it okay that I cashed it? .... Ok, good. I just really needed cigarettes and I didn't have any money.....No, it's ok, you can just buy me coffee or something. I should get a little money in the next couple days from the deposit on my place in LA. I'll come to Warner Robins.....What?! You're still with him? What the fuck? No, you don't have to FedEx me money. I'll call you Friday and we can meet up at Starbucks or something..... Ok, take care babe...Love you too.

BEN grins as he puts the phone back in his pocket. He watches as an old man slowly peddles a bicycle down the street, followed by a young leather-clad boy on a motorcycle. He continues smiling, although not as wide, as he walks back inside and sits down at his table, resuming his writing with a little less difficulty.

So many thoughts.

I just smoked my last cigarette. It's 5:30 am Eastern Standard Time, and I'm nowhere near the verge of sleep.

Today I slept until three, woke up, showered, ate a leftover Sloppy Joe sandwich, and took my mother's car to my uncle's gas station, where I cashed a seven dollar check that was buried under the driver's side seat of my neglected Honda Civic. The check was from a friend at my old job. The only thing that we had in common was the secret we shared. We both had strong affections for prescription opiates. I loved her dearly.

I have to say that I miss LA. Some of the experiences I had there were too Hollywood for Hollywood. I'll never forget them.

Maybe I'll be back one day. Today I wrote the first and last page of a screenplay about my life. After typing the last word, I realized that I am far too young to be writing an autobiography, even if it could possibly be my ticket out of here. Instead, I decided to do it the old fashioned way. I revamped my resume, skewing words to make my work experience appear much more grandiose and important than in reality, and sent it--along with a well-written cover letter and the recommendation I have from the Colonel--to several agencies in Hollywood looking for personal assistants.

Oh, I think my grandfather is dying. I mean, of course he's dying--he's ninety--but, I think he's dying at a faster rate than I have normally anticipated. I like to wonder what he was like when he was my age.

Flight 616

So ends another journey into the unknown. I've learned a lot this time—a lot about myself, the nature of others, and how to live life happily. The secret, I've found, is to be stoned as much as possible. My high has worn away, appropriately, as I watch the sun set over some unknown plain in the Midwest. I can't help but wonder what awaits me back home.

I've begun to use the term “home” loosely, as a multitude of towns have become worthy of that moniker during the past few years: Cochran, Dublin, Savannah, Warner Robins, and now Hollywood and Silver Lake. It's nice to know that I have close friends scattered about the country, but it also makes me sad to realize that I'll no longer be in their lives when I leave. I wonder how long it will take before they forget.

There is a girl across the aisle from me on Flight 616 from Phoenix to Atlanta. She's coloring a page from a coloring book, although she must be at least eighteen. It's a drawing of a crab on a beach, and the lines are bold and meticulously traced, while the inside is carefully shaded in an exact shade of pale pink. The flight, I've been told, will be a short one--three hours and twelve minutes. I guilt-tripped the stewardess into giving me a packet of Fiesta Snack Mix, which is now reserved only for the first class patrons. I don't have the seven bucks for a prepackaged Chicken Caesar salad. If I did, I'm sure it would be the best food I'd ever placed in my mouth.

Paul tried to get me to fuck him today in return for him taking me to the airport. I ended up letting him blow me. I couldn't get off, so I pretended to cum as he faced away from me and ground his ass into my side. He told me to wipe it onto the shirt he was wearing because it was dirty anyway and needed to be washed. In reality, he probably was thinking ahead, creating some physical relic of this sexual escapade to aid him in future masturbation sessions. Boy will he be disappointed when he finds the stains on his shirt were caused by nothing more than his own saliva. Or maybe, knowing him, he would be even more turned on. I need to get stoned.