The Wonderment of Buddy Benjamin (Part I)

The ball felt like a lopsided boil in Buddy's hands as he took his first few feeling dribbles. For a split second he thought about exchanging it for another, but as he switched his dribble to his even more awkward left hand he realized that the ball wasn't the problem. It had been months since he could think about any game other than school. But, as he strode onto the court he realized that he couldn't remember one tort from his law class or one adage from his philosophy course. He thought it odd, all the hours he'd smashed his brain against the tiny words on expensive texts hoping to extract an imprint, and yet his mind was as vacant as a lonely fish bowl. The dreaded first shot was surprisingly nothing but net. A residual bit of drunkenness before the undertow of hangover, he assured himself.

Games raged on both sides of his head, he set, focused and concentrated on some sort of follow through. He retrieved the ball. Set, focus, follow through. Swish. He worked up the courage to put the ball through his legs. It felt like a dinner bell ringing. He did it again, this time walking backwards, taunting an invisible defender. A lunge to the right, a switch to his left and a hop step back brought forth a majestic example of how a jump shot should be shot. Straight up, shoulders square, elbow in, wrist snap and purity. For the next hour Buddy danced as if he were alone in his room, surrounded by the questioning eyes of weekend warriors and basketball enthusiasts. The ball was a detachable appendage, as commandable by his brain as his fingers or toes. He told it to go round his back and head, through his legs and down his finger with every type of spin known to physics. He taught it to roll off a glass pane into a metal circle. Buddy used to be a gym rat and in true rat fashion he forced himself to hit five three pointers in a row before releasing himself from the pull of the court.

Later, eyes closed and facing the luke warm beams of shower water face first, he thought only of control. Of both how very little he controlled in his life and, with astonishment, how easily he'd controlled his movements and the ball on the court that night. In every day life he couldn't see three feet in front of his face. Buddy was a bumbler. He bumbled through friendships, schoolwork and family dinners. He bumbled through conversations with his own grandmother. Basketball was one of the few things in life which Buddy was transfigured and transformed into a silken confidence machine. Silken because what he did flowed like satin drying in the wind. It made sense because it was a beautiful sight and it was a beautiful sight because it made sense. Buddy used head fakes better than politicians used lies, spin moves better than they dodged questions and finished quicker than Ted Kennedy on top of an over priced hooker.

Dials spun in his deft hands and the flow was constricted. Eyes soggy, he blindly reached for a gigantic white beach towel and stood numb in the tub basin drying his face and chest. He stepped out of the shower into his own reflection in the mirror which was posing the question nipping at his mind all night. "If I'm so damn good at basketball and so shitty at everything else, wouldn't it stand to reason that other people are just as familiar with the same kind of mind blowing minutia of making others feel small, or taking home a woman, or brainwashing a child. Could they feel the same exhilaration as I do when hitting a shot when they cheat, lie, deceive, falsify or hurt?"

His eyes drifted from his growing stubble up and around to the ceiling as he combed his memory for personalities which might remind him of himself on the court. That confidence, that grace. The ability to predict microscopic changes in another player's center of gravity. How his muscle fibers lept like lightning to the ground to exploit a weakness, an opportunity to drive to the hoop, to score.

Salsa

The salsa was too spicy.

Tortilla chips melted inches before even having been dipped in its red gooey-ness. No one knew who made it, it just appeared one day in a Tupperware jar with a posted note attached to its lid which said, "For the one who knows little and seeks much." Pat assumed it was an odd neighborly gift left as an awkward exchange of amicability from the apartment adjacent to his. He brought it inside and placed it in his brand new General Electric half freezer half fridge with the intention of buying some chips for later on that day. He shuffled on about his day, purchasing goods and making transactions as all the while the salsa radiated next to a jar of blackberry jam in its chilly new abode. It was far too hot.

Pat took his mom's pant suit to the dry cleaners, watered his cactus, cleaned his fish tank and last of all headed off to the Grocer's Garage for a few much needed supplies. In the check out isle his eyes searched the surroundings for something which might make his expression more interesting, when all the sudden his mind was flooded with thoughts of rivers of thick, blood red salsa. He had to have corn chips. He informed the next customer in line of this fact as he dashed towards isle number nine and all its crispy bounty. Uncharacteristically, Pat turned off the too loud stylings of the Beastie Boys as he made the first right turn on the long journey from the G's G to his quiet apartment.

The car was still in drive when the driver's side door flung open, it's occupant holding a bag of Tostitos with all the luminescent brightness of God's personal sitting cloud in his hazelnut eyes. Mindless and drunk with a passion for flavor he forsake the welcoming door frame in favor of a James Bond like barrel role through a large window leading to the living room. With the grace of a drunken peg leg he arose from a pile of shattered glass and hobbled wide eyed into the moon lit kitchenette. His eyes saw a normal refrigerator, but his mind's eye was glowing in a transcendent vision of bubbling salsa concocted with every enticing and tongue fucking pepper our earth has ever produced. Halfway to the fridge his tongue jutted unconsciously from his foaming mouth led by a team of inbred and rabies ridden taste buds with a blood lust for spice. They cooled themselves against the white metallic surface of the fridge door as Pat unbuckled his pants and shucked off his undergarments as if they were aflame. The yellow light basked all about his body like the relieving light of heaven's gates when he pulled open the door to what was sure to be the ultimate taste experience of his pathetic existence. He located the jar and crushed the posted note roosting coolly on its top. The top hit the wall. Hands hit salsa and scooped, giving the glory to his heaving tongue. Lights erupted from the earth around his feet and above his head, cutting him like the blades of a pair of laser beam scissors snipping off a serpents head. Pat felt his body ascending towards some fantastic upside down caramel waterfall which spilled into a tributary of a far off world's waste management facility. Though his body had been obliterated by the fall up the sugary sweet water spout , Pat felt as if he were spinning and rotating at an enormous speed which only seemed to increase exponentially as time's arrow shot ominously towards its target. At his conscious mind's breaking point a searing pain emanating from his mouth snapped him back into reality.

A reality where he lay naked from the waste down, dick first in a small dirt and salsa filled hole in the middle of his freshly sodded lawn.

The salsa was too spicey.

Blurred Vision

I clicked the T.V. off and lay in the darkness. All was still. The street light illuminated hardly anything and I stared at the time staring back at me from the now dead cable box. Bad genes and years of squinting rendered the digital numbers a blur. I tugged on the part of my temple next to my one good eye to pull the numbers 3:49 into focus. I released, splattering the numbers an unrecognizable amber across a dark blue canvas. I tugged again. A minute had passed. Again and again I physically focused my ocular lens until whatever point I was trying to make made sense. Time is unraveling my senses. Where this very room may have been crystal clear, silent and haunting five years before, it was now a hazy streak of unknown. The thought occurred to me that this unraveling may not be isolated to just sight, but touch, smell, hearing, taste and most terrifying of all, true feeling. A mere tug on my temple sent me spinning back through time when both the lens of my eye and of my heart weren't wrecked by experience. An inevitable sadness washed over me as I brought my hand from my face, sinking back into the blur. At that moment I decided I needed a contact, both for my eye and my heart. I have been perceiving the world with blurred vision and blurred feeling for far too long and I know only of a remedy for my eye. Corrective vision for the heart can not be bought in stores, it has to be home made, whittled day by day with tedious care. One slip and the the glass shatters, the heart breaks and with it the body and conscious mind. All these things rushed through my mind as I looked lazily at my streaking surroundings in the dark of my living room.

Confidence

I have very little.

I don't feel bad about it. I feel justified and bewildered.

Only when I'm disillusioned or drunk do I ever project anything resembling confidence. I honestly think these are the only states where confidence can justifiably, yet falsely, breed and take hold in a person. I saw a post on Gawker tonight titled "All the Wrong People Have Self-Esteem". This couldn't be more true. People who, in my tiny opinion, have their head on straight and see existence as it actually is are rarely confident. Why would they be? What would any rational and reasonable person plant a seed of confidence in? God? He seems to be the most popular earth in which to grow the false flora of confidence , and why not? If ever lasting paradise awaited all of us who were able to follow 10 simple rules the world would be full of happy people. But most people, whether they want to admit it or not, don't believe in this proposition. Thus, a whole lot of us are pretty sad most of the time. Not that sadness is a bad thing, just a manifested reflection on the scary mysteries of life.

Confidence can never be rooted in the unknown.

Its no wonder that when I look on really confident people I see someone who has invested all their thoughts and energy in the tiny pictures that ours minds can take, meaning the petty things which make our society go round. Good jobs, attractive spouses, sleek cars, rule following, healthy teeth and skin, nice, pressed clothing= societal norms= reaffirmation of values= confidence.

To me, confidence reeks of submission, of unimaginative conformity, of arrogance. Weird as it may sound, we should all be in a constant state of bewilderment. I love the word bewilder. For me it sums up the state of human existence. Sure, our best and brightest, like Newton and Hawking, have figured out some things about the abyss around us, but for the most part we are all bewildered newborns in the dark.

As I write this a tinge of dissent has been growing within me. It is telling my digits to tell you that certain types of confidence are real and true. This tinge has grown as my four fingers fluttered on this board of letters and I am forced to admit that some people, some people's love and hope can't help but bare the fruit of confidence from my cynical winter tree of a mind. This confidence grown from the purest form of the human spirit is something that should be celebrated. I haven't seen too many examples of it lately, but I do know it exists, so I can't discount it.

This confidence is seen in times of trouble and tragedy. When our friends are at wits end and we reach down to our deepest depths to comfort and reassure them, thats the confidence I believe in. When men and women run in to burning buildings to save total strangers, thats the confidence I believe in.

Confidence in ourselves, to me, is vanity, but confidence in each other is the best aspect of humanity.

Random Thoughts From Within a Bath Robe

A few things: Krogerering at midnight is the best type of Krogering. What would your entrance music be if you were a Major League Baseball player? Wouldn't you rather have your dying words be a hilarious joke or gag than some prolific statement about love?

Let's go.

I'm an avid Kroger shopper. I don't feel comfortable in any other grocery store. The Pig seems a little run down, Whole Foods is great, but the yuppie/smug factor is a big time turn off. Kroger is not too hot, not too cold, but just right. My favorite thing about Kroger? Well, besides the sheer volume and range of delicious produce, it has to be that most Kroger's stay open all damn day and all damn night. If I want a cup of sliced watermelon, some Hot Pockets and a home pregnancy test at 3:45 A.M. by God I can get them all in one convenient, well lit location. I can't think of any event that kills my boredom and hunger/thirst/hygienic needs better than a late night visit to that big blue sign in the sky. Peace and comfort envelope me as I stroll through the aisles in my flannel jim jam pants and flannel bed shirt usually not having a clue what I'm searching for, but with the utmost confidence that I'll know it when I see it. Last night it was a plastic cylinder of creamy chicken noodle soup and a six pack of YooHoo(the blog's spell checker is advising me that I've misspelled BooHoo, making me long for an ice cold bottle of BooHoo. If only it existed.) When I'm Krogering late night I feel like a grown up kid all alone in a candy store for adults. There are all sorts of fancy vegetables and cheeses, not to mention a respectable selection of domestic and imported beer and wine. Sometimes I just hang out by the olive bar and gawk. One day I'll be rich enough to fill a whole Kroger sack full of mozzarella cheese balls and stuffed mushrooms...one day. One day I'll be able to push a buggy full of goat cheese, Havarti and Dom Perignon through the check out aisle and pay in straight cash. These are the thoughts that bedazzle and torment my mind as I peruse the aisles with a basket full of bologna and Iron Kids bread. One day I'll supermarket sweep that beautiful bitch, but until then I think I can be satisfied pondering my culinary possibilities under the harsh florescent glow of the lights in Kroger at midnight.

More musings to follow.

Freedom in Heights

We retold what had just happened with such exuberance and excitement that we conjured up some sort of time portal leading to exactly 9 hours in the past. Suddenly we were the three bored and unimaginative douches we'd been at 10 o'clock the previous night. And we wanted to party. I can't remember who suggested that we go back on the roof, but I'm sure it was Roll. He's the one who disappeared downstairs only to reappear seconds later with a satchel of various beers.

Walking out on that roof was like hopping on the surface of the sun. It was 8 o'clock, but it wasn't morning. The sun was high in the sky and my newly naked tit skin could feel itself cooking. Our flesh was roasting, our brains were toasted and for the life of us we could not stop giggling. We sizzled on shingles like three sun glass clad pieces of bacon sautéing in gin and freedom. I pulled my shorts into thong position, giving my upper thighs their first taste of vitamin D. This was met with groans from Roll and a purring sound from T-Nasty.

We laid there soaking up sunshine and sipping on sin until the pure freedom of the situation overwhelmed me. I hopped up and gave a drunken homage to Charles Chaplin. I did precarious acrobatic maneuvers on every corner of the roof, diving and tripping, rolling and collapsing, mooning imaginary voyeurs and dancing with fictitious maidens. In the midst of my madness I spotted some painters hard at work on an adjacent roof top. I screamed for them to look our way, then showed them my ass cheeks. Moments later I noticed the faithful congregation of High Street Unitarian Univeralist Church filing in to their Sunday service. They then got a pre-church sermon on why God was dead before feasting their eyes on my supple buttocks.

By this time, my liberation from the dictate of society was nearly complete. All that was left for me to do was fully expose myself on the highest point of the roof. So, I went inside and grabbed the afore mention poster of George Costanza and whipped off my undies. I then scaled the remaining portion of the roof and jangled my dangle in the cool morning breeze with the poster of Costanza draped around my shoulders.

Jealousy is a stinky cologne.

Next Part...

To fully understand the comedy of this scene I need to describe the condition of our apartment when the coppers strolled through. Monday through Thursday I would classify our place as barely livable; meaning the urge to clean up/get the fuck out of there is palpable, but not overwhelming. The first half of Friday is usually the cleanest the place ever gets because, who knows, someone who actually gives a shit about appearances and sanitation might drop by and that person might have boobies.

5 o'clock Friday evening marks the point when things start going down hill. It starts with the beer cans and solo cups and by Sunday we're sitting in a crack den littered with newspapers, dirty hypodermic needles and hula hoops. We try to do some light surface cleaning on the subsequent days of the week to make Friday's clean-up a little more bearable, but for the two or three weeks preceding the weekend in question we just said "Fuck it, we like wallowing in filth. This is good." For you Weather Channel junkies it was like we had a three week shit blizzard and were two feet deep in a thick blanketing of garbage. And not just garbage; see we like to steal things, usually when intoxicated, so we have random shit like 15 foot Mike Huckabee signs and various bar paraphernalia strewn about. This is what six officers of the law had to navigate though to get to Travis' room.

Oh, God, Travis' room.

Number one, he sleeps on a giant suede bean bag set up nicely in front of a 65-inch HD television. Behind the bag is the same exact red metal bunk bed you had at age 8. The room actually looks like something a wealthy 8-year-old would design. It's got a tiny trampoline so The Smell can do his cardio and a dress up closet stocked with riches from the Salvation Army and Good Will.

Wait did I say an 8-year-old? I meant an 8-year-old with a severe, severe drinking problem.

At the time of this incident we estimate there were over 100 beer cans and bottles in various stages of emptiness and three handles of different types of liquor chilling in every nook of the room. On a side note, T-Nasty's room has another odd feature, or features. His room has six closets. One huge one and five little ones. He likes them, though. He's always going in and coming out of them. Odd, I know, but when we ask what he's doing all he'll say is "Practicing.", whatever that means.

Anyway, you get the picture, we're slobs.

As the coppers are trudging up the stairs I start searching the hodge podge of empty take out boxes and clothing on the floor for a shirt to cover my finely sculpted chest and abdominal region. I want to put the policemen and dyke at ease and if my naked torso screams anything its intimidation. I get the shirt on just as--lets say Officer Leslie-- waddles in the room with five smug motherfuckers with badges. To be honest much of what happened next is a blur. I don't know if the reality of the situation set off an adrenaline explosion in my brain or if I jostled loose a hidden pocket of gin somewhere when I ran to Roll's room, but my head was spinning.

Macon's finest launched their investigation cautiously with questions such as "Is that how you get to the roof?" Yes. "Have you gentlemen been drinking." Heavily. "We're you drinking on that roof?"

Seeing where this line of questioning was going we informed the officers that we were drunk, not 3-years-old and that we had indeed been drinking on the roof and may have become over exited by the awe inspiring realizations which witnessing our circular blue spacecraft rotate into brilliant beams of sun light had thrust upon us.

At least thats what we tried to say. In actuality I think we said, "Does there really need to be six, seven...five...SIX! policemen in here right now! Do you really not have ANYTHING better to be doing than giving us SHIT!" And so on and so forth. Travis reached the breaking point when a young, tall officer who we even now refer to as Rook broke the case wide open with his observation, "Well, those beers didn't drink themselves." To which Travis said, "No shit! We did, but just because you see empty beer cans doesn't mean they were all drank in the last 24 hours!!!!" You may think I'm trying to make myself look better by adding all these curse words to what we said. You would be wrong. Normally we would have been civil, but even after we'd admitted to causing a ruckus and apologizing these six mongoloid crime fighters wanted to stay and chat about the general appearance of our, of OUR apartment and they wanted to do it with thinly veiled insults that only their unfuckingbelievably clever minds could ever catch. Travis responded with the classically exasperated line, "It isn't against the law for me not to clean up after myself, is it!?" No, Travis, it is not.

Finally after winning the battle of wits with the six uniformed high school drop outs in ambled their leader who was probably lagging behind after getting hung up on how to operate our door knob. At my breaking point, I blurted out, "Do you really not have anything better to do right now?" A valid question since we live in Macon a.k.a. Georgia's ghetto. His reply caught me off gaurd. He stopped, stuck his thumbs into his gun belt, cocked his head at the ceiling and seemed to be earnestly pondering the question. He then swiveled on his heels to face me and said, "Slow morning."

With that, all the tension in the air went right out the window. King cop asked us about our majors, dyke cop tried to lick Travis' vagina and Rook commented on a poster of George Costanza tacked to the ceiling. They eventually filed on out, leaving us with a warning not to go back on the roof and to laugh our asses off while giddily retelling a story which had happened just three minutes in the past.

This is taking so long to tell so I'm going to have to finish up later.

We went back out on the roof.