Of Course, You’ll Do It

I

Go straight home; don’t stop at the bar, don’t get drunk, don’t be dumb. Irresponsible. Wanna add that to the list—irresponsible? You know you should, you must, save your money. But then again, you could save money every day and you’d still be broke. Shit, you’d find five thousand bucks on the street and still drown in debts. Sinking deeper wouldn’t make a difference. But you can’t say fuck it anymore. Can’t give up and let your kids’ lives be poisoned by your problems with that crazy bitch you love so much. Can’t put more pressure on mom; she should be enjoying her retirement in peace and quiet, no stress.

Here it comes, just keep walking, don’t stop, don’t even look. Don’t play with fire. You’re already on the edge. Wanna add alcoholic to the list too? Aren’t you pathetic enough already? Living in your mother’s house at thirty-eight, not seeing the end of that divorce bullshit, sending the kids to school with a lunch that could fit in a sock. Three kids have a bad role model and next thing you know a whole branch of the family tree’s rotten. All that because you couldn’t do your job right—your duty. As a father, not that shitty soul-crushing job with the schedule that swings like Donna’s mood. Night shift, then day shift, then comes the “Would you mind taking the morning shift?” and the “Finally, could you come in a little earlier?” And it’s not getting any better; you got spat on today for fuck’s sake. A new low. Can’t believe you didn’t bash that piece of shit’s face, smash his teeth on his cell’s wall so he’d look at the stain every night when trying to sleep. Maybe you should have. Now you’ll get home all pissed off and might snap at the kids again like when you yelled at Sarah when she asked the pack of gum and you were already annoyed because they don’t seem to grasp how bad the money situation is. And that bitch at the register who gave you the owl’s eyes. Sorry your honor, you’re right your honor, I’m such a worthless, impatient scumbag. With all due respect, your honor, you don’t know shit about me.

Is that your ringtone? Yeah. It’s her. Again. Must be her fifteenth call today. Don’t pick up. You’re too tired for one of her fits. Of course, you feel bad for her and want to help and understand her, but it’s so draining, and you don’t need that kind of stress, and the kids surely don’t need that bullshit around them.

Ah, she sent you something. Let’s see. Curiosity always wins. And it’s a picture. Ah, come on…Who’s that guy? She probably picked him up at that club, she’s always fucking there. Don’t get mad at him, he’s clueless. She’s the immature one, who tries to provoke you. Don’t let it get to you. You have to bring her the kids tomorrow. She’ll tell them all kinds of lies about you, all week long, and maybe they’ll believe her. Damn it, you don’t need that, they don’t need that, nobody needs that shit. It’s not her fault. She was fine when you met her. She’s still somewhere in there under the craziness. She’s sick. Sort of. Brainsick. Like a brain cold that makes her unstable and kind of nuts, that came out of nowhere. There’s someone, up there, fucking with you for his own sadistic pleasure.

It’s getting cold, and that jacket has more holes than a golf course. It looked so good when she gave it to you. “I know yellow’s not the manliest color, but it might remind you to smile from time to time.” Was that what she said? Something like that. Now it’s all faded and worn out. Like your life.

Ok, there it is. Just walk straight by. Don’t look inside. Don’t you dare get in there, you coward, you loser, you weak-minded failure. For once, be strong. It’s a bad idea and you know it. Can’t you learn from your mistakes? You always have the choice. That’s what wise people say. Try to do the wise thing from time to time. Can’t hurt.

It’s exhausting though, making the right choice. All day long. And no good outcome in sight.

You know you’ll have trouble sleeping. Again. Alcohol helps with that. It’s not ideal, but ideal’s not available to you. You know how it goes; can’t sleep, and that frustrates you, and that makes it even harder to fall asleep. It doesn’t do any good either—for yourself, for the kids—if you’re tired all the time.

Sure, there’s the money thing. And one goddamn beer costs about seven bucks plus the fucking tip. And they certainly judge you down to the bones when you don’t tip. Those assholes… They make more cash with the tipping in one evening than you do in a week. No pity for those clowns.

Just two. That’s money you’d spend anyway if you had lunch at a diner instead of bringing your own, or if you still smoked or gambled. Just skip the muffin tomorrow morning to be safe. And drink a lot of water. Makes you feel less hungry so you can hold on until noon.

Not many people inside. Don’t stand in front of the door like an idiot; pretend you’re checking your phone or something. Oh shit, another message.

You know you’ll end up going in anyway. No matter how long you fool around and debate with yourself. You’ll say, “Just a couple,” and, “Anyway I’d waste more time rolling around in bed trying to sleep than I would in there.” Stop kidding yourself. Of course, you'll do it.

II

Look at those assholes. They don’t give a shit. They ignore you like you're a fucking pigeon. And they’re good at it, pretending you don’t exist. They turn their heads, hope the dirty ghost-of-a-man will disappear. Nope, still there. Here you are, day after day, still reaching out into oblivion with your bony, freezing hand. Still asking nicely for spare change. How can you stay so calm? Not spit in their faces? It would be better if they did something like that. If they yelled at you, or kicked you. Anything but deny you exist.

If the roles were swapped, you’d give some coins. If you had a steady job and all, even minimum wage, you’d give the hobo a buck or two. Because you’d know all the shit he’d be going through every second of his life. You know he’d probably be about to pass out from lack of energy, lack of nutrients, overdose of nothing. You know the true value of one dollar. You know what one dollar means.

One dollar doesn’t mean shit. Can’t buy half a raisin with that. The world’s gone mad—up the price, down the quality. And how much can you really blame on inflation? How much of it is greed? And people just play along with this shit. How come they don’t get mad? Real anger, not complaining-without-doing-anything anger, but collective-breaking-point anger—rebellion.

Even with a job you can barely make it. Even if you restrict yourself, drink only tap water and eat saltines, the rent itself will bleed you dry, skin you, melt you down, and sell your carbon atoms to an oil company with a discount. You had a job, look where you are now? A few bad choices, a lot of bad luck, and there you go, down society’s drain.

That’s what they say, those condescending scumbags, “Get a job”. Where? How? Some people with diplomas, a CV, and a shower can’t find a damn job. Civilization’s choking on itself and you’re the canary in the coal mine. Sooner or later, they’ll fall too. When the lower-class folk eat each other up and no one’s left to support the top layers and it all crumbles, you’ll get the last laugh. Finally a pleasant thought.

Isn’t it funny how they shake their heads like, “No, I don’t have any change,” and you hear the clinking in their pockets as they walk away? Coins that end up forgotten in some drawer with extra socks and single earrings. For them, it’s pocket change; for you, it gets you through the day. What a waste.

Heavy faces with heavy pockets. Tough life, huh? All cowards. Weak. They wouldn’t last a day in your shoes, but they’re the ones looking down on you.

So what if you buy dope now and then? Everyone would do the same. With that kind of life there’s only the present moment, and if you can make it a little less shitty, chemicals or not, you do it. Makes sense. Because you can’t do that Buddhist thing—cut yourself from desire, enjoy the little things, and all that bullshit. You don’t get to focus your mind on the sweet sound of a stream or whatever; you hear cars and those maniacs at the wheel who use the horn like it’s fucking punctuation. No peace of mind for you, no nirvana.

Could you live in the woods? Survive on what you pick up. But what woods? They shaved and skinned the whole planet, and wherever there’s a couple of plants left, they make it a “park,” and add an entry fee and a schedule and rules and “You can’t sleep in the park after eleven” because whatever bullshit reason they won’t give you anyway because the communication is one way in that sweet democracy—open your heads and let the sewer flow right in, and if you feel like expressing yourself, there’s the check box every four years and that’s all you get.

Survival. That’s all there is, all there’ll ever be. No matter how much padding people hide under to try to forget about it—layers upon layers of fancy carpets and comfy blankets and diplomas and bank receipts and all that vain stuff to cover the abyss under, the great fear, the only real threat. You stare into its eyes every day. In that way, you know more than they do.

Fuck it all. Fuck all of them. They don’t give a shit about you, why should you give a shit about them? Too negative? That’s not how a good person thinks? Sure, you could be better than them, wiser, stronger, not let your situation change you, but virtue won’t stop your stomach from digesting itself.

You’ve tried to be a good person. Look where that got you. People will shit down your throat and make you pay for it—that’s just what they do.

And that guy’s just like all of them—ignorant, pathetic, selfish. Staggering in the alley like a weak sheep wandering away from the herd. Probably just out of the bar, stuffed his throat ’till closing time, now taking a quick piss behind a dumpster before going back home, back to his clothes, his food, his stuff. And that jacket might be what makes you survive the winter.

No witnesses. Whatever he has in his pockets is more than you have. Of course, you’ll do it.

III

Well, that’s what happens at four in the morning, the options are limited. Hobos and whores and a couple of night owls or night-shift workers on their break. Sure, that’s not the best time, but what can you do? You don’t control it when it happens, it just takes over. You get the images, the fantasies, and next thing you know you’re outside, not knowing where you’re going or what’s gonna happen, but it’s driving you from within, so let it steer. Do it for real this time, you’ll regret it if you don’t.

That guy? Stop kidding yourself. Pick a smaller one. Did he stare? Did he recognize you from the article? That was almost a month ago. What was the title again? “A hero among us” or something corny like that. They would have chosen a different title if they’d known the excitement it gave you. That what made you feel good was the killing, not the saving. Some hero, huh? You should have said that, see how they react. But you didn’t know then, what that feeling was. What about now? How do you feel now? Uplifted. That eagerness, that’s not some anti-PTSD gimmick of the brain or some defense mechanism against trauma; it’s authentic, it’s pure. It feels right. Like an anticipation of relief, soon to come, when you’ll make it happen again. And finally, feel it again. Scratch that itch. Memories don’t cut it anymore. Must have played the scene in your head, like what, a thousand times? Play it again.

In the subway. Waiting for the train. That guy, either insane or drugged or just in a fit of hostility, charges that girl. Hits her in the back. She falls, almost on the rails. Train’s coming. Guy’s about to kick her, right on the track, under the train. You tackle him. He falls. Gets squashed. Then, “Are you alright?” “You did the right thing.” “Thank you so much.” “Mister, please wait for the police, they’ll need your testimony.” “Could we ask you a few questions?” Flash, flash. Scribble, scribble. “What made you do it?” “Why did you decide to act when everyone else just watched?”

Reflexes, that’s what you said. You should take some credit, that’s what they said. A hero…

But what was it? Instincts? An impulse? A jack-in-the-box that’s been cranked all your life that finally popped out at the opportune time? Deep down, you knew what it was all about, but instincts are faster, and the brain takes time to do the maths. Let’s catch up.

Why did you do it? Right place, right time? Because you’re a Good Samaritan? Because you were bored? Because, subconsciously, you saw the opportunity for a justified and unpunishable kill? Maybe it started earlier, but that event awakened something that was there all along, buried under conventions and pro-social values and repression and spoon-fed concepts of right and wrong.

And that feeling! With most things—boring, generic, wearisome, everyday-life things—you work and wait for the most part, and the payoff barely lasts, like a water slide. But that was different. That lasted a second and it still resonates in every fiber, stains every waking moment. Like a radioactive fallout—what’s the half-life of ecstasy? Such a peculiar sensation. Now you know it wasn’t only the adrenaline still pumping around. Wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t…negative.

It felt great—thrilling…empowering…substantial. Like when you finally punched that annoying kid who kept bugging you on the playground and the adults tried to make you feel bad about it, but you couldn’t feel a hint of remorse.

Let’s see what else the night has to offer. That one on the balcony? Out of reach. A taxi driver? Being in the back seat of a car really narrows your mobility. Those old people, that’d be easy. But they’re in pairs. What are they doing out at this hour, anyway?

Always some factors to consider, things in the way. Keep it simple. Be smart. Just walk around and observe. No expectations. Go with the flow, and if an opportunity comes up and you feel like it, go for it.

What about that girl? If you speed up the pace, you can get there before she closes the door, and then take out the—

Oh shit, the knife. That’s what happens when you’re too eager, you forget things. Doesn’t matter. Adapt. Never let circumstances get in the way. Don’t try to force anything. Let life happen. Or death.

Good thing you’re staying rational. Otherwise you’d jump like a mad dog on the first person you come across. When you’re in that state—disconnected from the superego; longing for something very, very strong that you’ve wanted very, very much for a while—it’s easy to lose control. When primitive urges rise and reasoning drops. When the hunger kicks your perception wide open and the restrictive chains of the moral compass break.

You just can’t shake that off. Can’t ignore it anymore or try to keep it inside. Things are clear now, can’t deny the signs. When you’d wander at night, just like now, didn’t know what you were seeking, but strangely wished you wouldn’t cross paths with a girl alone, conveniently vulnerable, or some asshole who’d rub you the wrong way, because some part of you doubted you’d be able to restrain yourself. Now you know, when you connect the dots and pull the gag off that voice inside you, that you wanted it to happen. Under that doubt was a craving.

No more turning a deaf ear to that magnetic, subversive muse; that siren with sharp teeth swimming in your guts. Listen. Let the seed grow, out of the repressed realm and into the real world. Accept that part of yourself. Let your nature go loose, don’t shove it in the closet and barricade the door like most people do. They want to believe they’re so civilized, but you’re the sane one. Those defense mechanisms, that inhibition—that’s what’s unhealthy. Some people let the animal out when they slightly choke their partner when they fuck or yell at the clerk or kick the dog down the stairs, and it contents them, but you need more. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

No more hesitation. No more doubt. Be at peace with the voice, synchronize with it. It would be a waste to choose restraint over the full extent of the experiences that life has to offer.

Nothing’s wrong with you. Nothing. Immoral and wrong are guidelines for people who can’t have their own values, to keep the cattle in line so it stays still while getting fucked by the wolves.

Transcend that. Rise above all of that, all of them. Look down and laugh, spit, strike, and shit.

Ah, there it is. How considerate of the world to gratify you with those near-ideal conditions. That’s what happens when you accept your true nature. The universe responds in gratifying ways.

It’s a little cliché to kill a hobo though… So be it. You’ll do him a favor. What a pathetic sight. You’d be grateful if you were the one in that alley, half passed-out, with a dirty face and a piss-colored jacket too tight for your bones, like a turd in golden wrapping presented on an asphalt plate to its passing savior, and that savior would deign take the time to put you out of your misery, tell you “It’s ok, you can punch out now, it’s over.”

He’s high out of his mind. Won’t even know what hit him.

That would be a brick.

That one right there. Once again, a gift from the universe, law of attraction they call it.

See the world as it is. The jungle. The food chain. The need chain. We feed on one another. All interactions are predatory, we all seek to satisfy some hunger—ask, get, rip off, fuck, kill…

Don’t fall for the hesitation. That’s just good-old resistance, status quo’s gravity trying to keep you on the ground when you try to rise to a higher place.

The mind may be driven by habits, but the soul is driven by impulses. Let there be sparks. Dance in the gray areas.

Drives like that, deeply rooted in your psyche, they always win. Even if socialization tried to castrate them, they’ve been revived. Don’t disappoint. If you fight them, they’ll destroy you. They always win. Of course, you'll do it.