Incidental Man

G: The slow drip of the faucet clanks on the stainless steel of penance. I awake to the voices of two people having a domestic dispute above my head. Thumps and screams and abusive sounds set the mood in which my days have always started.

The warm glass of water next to my bed brings a quench to my dying taste buds that have felt the relentless swallow of liquor and Marlboros from the night before. Twisted inside, my liver contemplates how many days left it has. In a search for my marbles, I gather what sense I have to get me out of this horrible hangover.

I always considered myself a fortunate man. Not in the sense of having wealth, but in the sense of defying death. My ambitious rivals have always been a great asset to me. Fully pressed in their divine vanity of achievement. Drenched in a self-hypnosis of yesterday’s past. I contemplate the choices I made like clockwork as the cold shower cleans the calamity from which my conscious body tries to ignore.

An unsteady shave has the sun pierces through my window letting me know once again that the temperature has repeated its cycle of a hundred degrees plus. This day in July in the desert brings a sense of hope in a way to me because there’s a slight chance it could rain. A refreshing sense of renewal.

Dam I hope it rains…

The mirror never lies is a laughable statement when the mirror sees only the physical attributes of what is displayed, yet it convinces the one looking in the mirror that with the right grooming and attire, one looks pretty dam good.

Key items such as a watch, necklace, and ring enhance the already confident man in a manner of materialistic prowess.

White dress shirt, a black suit, black socks, and my shiny new dress shoes. No tie. A tie would only enforce a serious state of well-being and I want to appear relaxed. Although my face is defined at first interpretation as a serious or angry face.

It is a misconception on most occasions, my friend. I always had the look of someone focused or determined, but that is not always the case.

Memories of characters I carry deep within my cellular makeup. Fascinated by the false realism of the true discovery of one’s self. Developed over a time frame of centuries. They call me the kid amongst giants in an industry that could devour your soul in a night.

Stepping out from my residence of sanity I discovered I forgot a key necessity.
My AirPods, connect me to a musical rhythm that sets the tone in which my mind inspires me to be positively correct. Shostakovich plays into my head like a worm embellishes an apple to its delight.

I sympathize with his struggle. Amazing man. To hinder one’s expression of the tyranny of those in power. To not be your own human, but theirs.

I head to my first stop. A hole-in-the-wall bar that makes me feel like family. Sorta the cheers scenario, but I’m not Norm. A shot of Jameson is just what I need to loosen the tension of yesterday’s failures. Two more shots and I’m on my way to the everyday hustle that has engulfed or morphed the man I dreamed to be.

A steady walk to my destination brings a sense of wonder as to how this night will turn out. I enter into a castle of challenge, light, and false realism. The sounds of winning play shallow to the sounds of losing. I have arrived at my destination tonight. The Bellagio.

Entering, I feel like a champion amongst my piers who look like a bunch of used car salesmen looking for that right sucker to swindle, entice, and control. I am a different kind of duplicate in comparison to them, so I think…

The eyes of judgment are upon you,
Will, you feed them or make them want,
Curious eyes see what you do, how you behave,
Do tell your secret, spoken, spilled, enslaved.

The beat was pounding as I stood outside the nightclub doors.

Duum, dumm, dumm, dumm…

Exhilaration! Goosebumps of what could be. A feeling of premeditated excitement. A plan to take those to a different planet away from their everyday struggles. In a life that they most likely weren’t prepared for, give them a couple of hours of pure bliss on a mischievous level. In return for their night of club amenities, a simple fee to employ my desires of limited freedom.

I am a very important person hosting a party for those who seek an unforgettable night. So many different faces I encounter every night. Everyone indulging in the grapes of abnormality. I often wonder if they put as much energy into love as the motivation given to get fucked up.

I too am a consistent victim of these self-induced poisons. A daily routine of whiskey, beer, energy drinks, vodka, cigarettes, pain pills, and the occasional white stuff. A very compulsive man I am. Destructive with a little sense of purpose, I survive.

I am falling again into a trance,
Within a frame of an hour,
At a second glance, she appears to me,
Holding a whiskey sour,
This is thee eighth I take it and state,
how many has it been.?
She says with a smile it’s been a while,
The night is about to begin.

Pry into the midnight hour. I can’t defuse the way I’m broken. A senseless carry-on of a repeat offender. She laughs at the fact that the Neon City has tormented me.  A sinful place. Not so much a simple place, but a place that I do not belong, and I am here.

The faces transform as the club becomes a room full of jokers, weirdos, and mentally challenged.

I sway as I make my way through the current of bodies. Even though the music is playing a house-thumping song, I feel like I hear carnival music being played.

Just imagine…

As I move to the left. Dodge the person on the right. Avoid the woman spilling her drink everywhere. Give a handshake to a regular. Hear the bad night the waitress is having as a fight breaks out. Light this guy’s cigar. Give a nod to a friend from across the room. Light my cig. Somebody always has to ask me for one whenever I light up, so I give them one and move on to table 41. Excuse me. Pardon me… Get the fuck out of the way! Through the dance floor. A brief conversation with the security guard as he lets me in. Open the velvet rope. Talk to the client. Make sure he is alright. Get the hooker out of his area. Take a shot with him. Then make my way back to the bar for round 9. Drink 10.

The cocktail I have before me is a favorable mixture of peach vodka and soda topped off with cranberry juice. It has a taste that ensures that another will be ordered, quickly I might add. I stare at this alcoholic beverage debating how the fuck I got here.. how the fuck I got here..