I know the words to that entire Broadway play. I love it so much.
No story or dream today. Night was disturbingly dream free. I’m more focused on continue the novel I just started, so no story just yet.
I didn’t want to attend the gym today, but I did since it’s emotionally, and maybe physically, good for me. Turns out it’s hard to focus at the gym when there’s a several thousand ton gorilla sharing the same space. You’d like to approach the gorilla, reason with it and maybe even make the gorilla smile, but you aren’t sure how and you don’t want to make the gorilla any less happy than it already is. So you leave the gorilla alone, knowing that leaving things alone never really solves anything.
In my limited time at the gym I talked way too much, pretended I was way too happy, and then said goodbye.
Eyes are always what I remember first, and last.
Work was equally strange. Usually we’re a happy cast of semi-alcoholics and alcoholics alike. Today, the three of us seemed equally down. Ty was angry and frustrated more than not, Tess seemed depressed as she so often stared at her phone, and I was anything but happy. Sales were extremely slow, so mostly we just spoke to each other and stumbled around and told stories about all of our horrible decisions.
I hate when customers ask me how I’m doing, and even when I’m doing fine, I hate how everyone’s automatic response is good. I’m good; that’s so rarely true, for anyone. So I stopped saying good, and just shrugged, or said ehhh, and such. A very despondent looking man entered at one point—you find many hopeless individuals in package stores—and approached me at the register.
“How you doing?” he asked.
I thought for a moment, decided he would appreciate it. “Life sucks.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, humorless. “Cheers.”
Life may not suck, but at times it certainly does.
After work I head over the casino to meet Scott for burgers at Bobby Flay’s and then nickel slots so we get free booze, as if I don’t get enough of that at work. Mohegan Sun has fireworks on Wednesday nights, and they’re exploding as I’m driving over, and still exploding when I park on the rooftop. People are everywhere watching, gathered in groups and couples and whatnot. I’m in my car, listening to, what else, The Trapeze Artist by Iron and Wine—I don’t listen to other songs at night when I drive, unless I’m in a particular mood—watching the fireworks, reminded how my ex-girlfriend and I used to attend almost every Wednesday many years ago. Those were nice times. Much simpler.
Skip ahead a bit. Scott and I finish eating and we find two open seats at the bar with the slots built in. The casino is again rather empty—I don’t go very often since the atmosphere depresses me, but there’s always a surprising absence of people. We put in our money—me a $5 bill, since I hate gambling and just come to talk with friends and drink and people watch and begin conversations with strangers and get hit on by girls I really don’t want to talk to.
I find my game—Wild Bear. I’m a very simple person. I like this game because it features animals. There’s a raccoon, a deer, a crow, a wolf—my favorite—and of course the wild bear. There’s also letters, but they aren’t important. I just like to watch the animals go by on the slots and sometimes line up and sometimes give me more credits. The entire thing captivates me, while I hate other slots, and gambling in general. I just like my animal friends, and all the while I’m aware how fucked up I sound and am. I say things like “For the wolf!” and “The bear rawrs!” and “Caw!” and “You’re a coon!” and other animal puns. I’m certain my immaturity annoys strangers. As an artist, you cannot afford to grow up and be mature.
Wolves are also cool.
So I go to press the button…and I press it…and nothing happens. The fucking machine is broken, and my animal friends are just sitting still, taunting me. My money is already in the machine, and I don’t want to cash out five fucking dollars and look like an idiot, and I don’t want to move, and very soon I can’t move since the other seats are occupied, so I stare at my animal friends and keep pressing the button until my fingers hurt.
Sigh, fucking, sigh.
This should not bother me so much, yet it does. A lot. “This is just my luck,” I say. “This is going to push me over the edge. Fucking Wild fucking Bear. Fuck.” I swear more than usual all night, and continue ranting about Wild Bear fucking me in the eye socket. Everything must go wrong, horribly wrong, at the same time, and now Wild Bear fails me as well. Maybe I have no right to be so angry, but I’m sort of flipping out. I watch Scott play Wild Bear instead of me. I play blackjack and I hate it.
We leave earlier than we thought we would. I feel restless, and I keep looking at my phone, probably because I’m accustomed to texting on it this time of night, and now I’m not and it feels weird and, well, bad. My phone, and many other things, feel like Wild Bear.
Broken.
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