Dave's Big Adventure

With my eyes closed, it doesn't seem so bad. Almost palatable. The story isn't easy. It hurts sometimes. The wounds, the pain, the anguish. Shane Falco said, "Pain heals, chicks dig scars and glory is forever." I am waiting on the glory thing. As I sit here, letting the darkness envelope me and leting my thoughts go, it gets easier. A little. I can even chuckle. It isn't the greatest story ever told. It's just mine.

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned...."

When I was in the 10th ^{grade, I got called into the guidance counselors office for the "Here’s Your Future" conversation. It was your stereotypical high school guidance counselor office. SAT study books, which college is right for you books, child development books, behavioral studies books all stacked on shelves that looked like they were falling apart and in old post office crates stacked all around the room. The papers on her desk looked as if at any moment they would crash down and maim whoever disturbed them. The obligatory posters on the fake wood paneled walls from the Army, Navy, Don’t Smoke, Drugs are for losers. Yeah, stereotypical.}

^{Though she couldn’t have been more than forty, Ms Guidance Counselor seemed old and frumpy to me in her ugly striped shirt, bad skirt and blood shot eyes. She almost reeked of her realization of mid-life complacency. She asked me what I wanted to do with my life.}

^{Do with my life? At 16, I didn’t know what I wanted to do for lunch. I sat there.}

^{She asked again. "What do you want to do? Your grades are average at best. You have a lot of potential. You just need to come up with something and go with it. We can help you get there." She seemed to be pleading with me so that in her lonely existence in future years when one of her pupils became a somebody she could lay claim to the fact that she counseled them and then write a book about all of her wisdom that would become yet another tome to add to some other poor guidance counselors falling down bookshelf.}

^{I sat there.}

^{"Well?" she demanded.}

^{So I said the first thing that came into my mind. "I want to be a butcher."}

^{"A butcher?" I could tell she didn’t get it.}

^{I sat there.}

^{She seemed perplexed. "You want to be a butcher?"}

^{"Well, yeah", I started. "But not your average every day butcher. I want to be a third world leader in what I call a communist paradise but what the reporter doing a human rights story right before I have her and her cameraman kidnapped and tortured and killed called a terror regime held together with fear and intimidation. I want to be a butcher in the sense of Idi Amim and Pol Pot."}

^{Ms. Guidance counselor sat there. I could sense her dismay so I decided to give her some other options for my future. "Well, that or a cult leader", I added.}

^{On my way back to geometry class, I got to wondering. How do you get that first person to believe you are the Son of God?}

^{So add 15 years. Here I sit. This twenty-something, self important executive type is interviewing me for a new position. Sitting in her high back leather chair behind her pseudo wood desk, her nails just so, in her designer dress, she exemplifies someone who has been climbing the corporate food chain based mostly on good looks and affirmative action. She is about to ask me what my short and long term goals are.}

^{"So, what would you say your short terms goals are?"}

^{I want to say to not get fired…..}

^{Instead, I said, "I would like to take this opportunity to see other departments within the bank and get more experience to grow my knowledge and become a better rounded productive account manager for the bank."}

^{"And your long term goals?" she asked right on cue.}

^{Again I stifle the first thought of: To make it thru every day resisting the urge to whip out an AK 47 and go postal…..}

^{Falling into the politically correct safe answer, "I hope to become an asset and make my way to an analyst position and hopefully eventually into a managerial position."}

^{Shuffling thru papers, making it look like she is actually considering me, "Well, you really haven’t shown us your full potential and until you do we really don’t think that at this time we are going to offer you the position." Like I didn’t see this coming. "I do appreciate you interest and hope that you don’t take this as anything other than an opportunity to excel." As she starts to stand, she hits me with one more, "Thank you for coming in today."}

^{Choking back a ‘Fuck you very much!’, I extend my hand and swallow every once of pride and ego I have and mumble "No, thank you for the opportunity and experience of posting for the position."}

^{On my walk back to my cubby past the masses answering call after call I wonder where I can get my hands on an AK and about a thousand rounds of ammo.}

^{The Mid-Life Thing}

^{Add a year. Atleast I have the home life. My 10th wedding anniversary. I get the day off but slip out like I am going to work anyway and instead hit the florist for a dozen roses. The charming devil that I am, I also have reservations at a nice little restaurant. I throw open the doors and proclaim, "Hey honey, happy anniversary!"}

^{As she stands there in her black lycra stretch pants and her red checked flannel shirt with a cigarette clenched in her teeth, I know now why it is that I truly love her. It is for her…}

^{"I need 60 bucks to file the divorce papers", she proclaimed.}

^{Wow. And I was going to use that for ammo…….}

^{"And I’ll be at my boyfriends!" she added just for good measure, I guess. She pushed past me on the way out the door.}

^{Huh. Must have been a last to know thing.}

^{The Depths}

^{So here I sit. Just another nameless face in just another corner bar drinking away my troubles with a beer and a shot and a beer and a shot. Chased with a beer and a shot. Never quite living up to my potential. Ain’t that my story. Never quite living up to my potential. Always right there at not needing to be spoken to but never quite leading the pack. Sometimes it’s best to fly right there in the radar mess. Blend. Be the one that is "dependable" but not exceptional. Slamming a shot, my only coherent thought, ‘Tequila good.’}

^{"So Cliff, you need another?" asked the trampy beermaid dressed in the uniform of trampy beermaids. Too tight jeans with a tear in just the right spot and that hang just low enough to show her neon pink thong. Black tight belly shirt showing her beer gut complete with mandatory belly button ring. Add to it the fact that my name is not Cliff….}

^{"Sure but the good stuff this time", making her do her job for once.}

^{"Is there such a thing as good tequila?" showing her ignorance. Is there such a thing as good beer maid?}

^{"Top shelf if you could"}

^{As the beermaid pours a shot and dribbles some of the nectar of the gods onto the bar, she spits out, "Nine bucks."}

^{Throwing a ten on the bar, I start conversation. "So Maria," knowing her name is Tanya, but hey turn about, "Whatcha think about running away to Las Vegas with me?" As she puts a dollar on the bar, "Keep it."}

^{Making an attempt at stuffing the bill into her too tight pocket she responds with, "I don’t think my boyfriend would like it."}

^{"So don’t tell him," slamming it back.}

^{Her only response, "Last Call!"}

^Revelations

^{As I walked home, alone, in the pouring rain and blowing wind, I got to thinking. I wonder what my potential is? The dictionary defines potential as an adjective and a noun as capable of being developed or used. Budding, developing, dormant, latent, capability, possibility, promise. Yeah, that’s pretty much me. Classic underachiever. I once read that some guy who is supposed to be smart and know such things, said that insanity is doing the same thing over and over and over and expecting a different result. I don’t know. I think he was close but not quite. I think insanity is doing the same thing over and over and over and not caring if there is a different result. Just doing it every day, every time and just doing it. Apathy, ambivalence, indifference. Reaching my door, I wonder. What if this it? What if this my potential?}

^{Then I realized I left my keys on the bar. Who says God watched over drunks, kids and Irishmen?}