Saturday

Buffalo Farm

Suicide would be a cop-out, but it's the first thing that usually comes to mind.

All day, every day, nothing to do, sitting in the same room full of bad emotions, a bad mess, a bad wall color.

I'm tired of recognizing prostitutes on the street, knowing them by name. Their stories are interesting but after a while, you listen, you hear their stories, and you realize they're all telling you the same one. Each woman out there on the street comes from somewhere different, somewhere unique, but they're all in the same place because those places they come from aren't that different.

And they know what it's like to be stuck in a bad place.

I get in my car at 1 a.m. I've been sitting, chewing on my fingers, thinking about all the same shit I think about during the day. I realized when my thumb started bleeding, just from biting the skin next to the nail, that I was destroying myself sitting here. I think about the lab rats that kill each other in confined spaces, and realize that I am both rats.

So I get in the car and start driving. I think of places I'd really like to be. For a while I drive around town in a stalemate because I realize that anywhere I go right now will be dark when I get there if I can get there on one tank of gas or less.

But I get on the Parkway headed south because I don't fucking care, because the journey is more important than the destination, right? Fuck that shit. I just need to go anywhere. I need to GET anywhere. Just to be there, just to see four walls I haven't seen before. Just to walk on ground I haven't cried on, haven't been angry on, haven't smiled on.

I go to the beach. I get there around 3. It's dark, the bars have let out, some people walk the streets. I resent everyone I see on foot because I know that wherever they're going doesn't require them to go very far from where they are right now. I resent them for being ignorant to the hour and a half I just spent on the road and I why I spent it.

I resent them for being happy, or at least for being comfortable.

I pull my car up as far onto the sand as I am comfortable with, as far up as I can get and still be sure I'll be able to back out onto pavement.

I listen to music and write a long, scathing letter. Then I write a sad one. They I write a happy one. They are all to the same person.

Suicide would be a cop-out, but it's the first thing that comes to mind.

I get out of the car and crumple the letters in my hand. I walk over to the water, leaving the door to my car open.

I stand at the waterline for a while. Every time the water comes up, it ices my feet, and each time it isn't quite as cold as the last. I've got the letters in my hand. I don't even bother trying to convince myself that I will throw them in. So I stand there for a while, my face dry from the salty air, dry from crying like a little bitch.

When I see the flashlight from the cop, I calmly turn around and he sees my face. He doesn't ask questions. He tells me to get in the car and go home.

I tell him OK.

I get on the Parkway north and stop at a diner that's open 24 hours a day.

Inside, the waitresses are faces I recognize. They all come from somewhere different, somewhere unique. And they're all in the same place because the places they come from aren't all that different from each other.

And they know what it's like to be stuck in a bad place.