It's 2:30 am. Cyrus tells me to get out, go home. I have 5 envelopes of customers photos in my hard. I protest "after thes ..." he cuts me off. "I'll do those, put 'em in a boat" (we call the things we carry the envelopes around the lab in boats).
I give in. It isn't any use arguing for more hours. They have 10 left in the back, which would only stall me 5 maybe 10 minutes more. So far from 40 it pains me to think of my upcoming paycheck. "full time?" I mutter to myself ... what a crock I think.
So, dragging my feet, trying to add seconds to my time I grab my card and clock out. 2:25am according to the clock. Its a little slow. Doesn't matter though. I clocked in on time according to it just 6 short hours ago. I shout "Have a good weekend" to the cute printer named Aaron in the back and he waves. I tell Cyrus the same and he gives me the empty, yet traditional, "Thanks Chris, have a good weekend" that I get to ceremoniously close the evening at the lab out right.
I grab my shit and I head to the truck. Relieved to get to go home. Lonely and a little sad, about many things, all things, no things. My hours, my life, and the cute guy in the back that I rarely get to talk to.
My truck grummbles and squeaks as it starts. I think I need to get the belt checked. It squealed almost the whole way here. It's probably one of the most embarassing sounds that can come from my truck. I whisper, "At least it runs" as if the Tigger (my truck) can hear me.
My ipod lights up and papa roach blairs from my speakers. I roll my window down and roll out of the parking lot. Heading to the highway I feel the cool wet air on my face.
Its not like Louisana where the air sticks to you and you feel like you a constantly bathing in the swamps. Here its different.
Here the wet in the air is the ocean. I imagine it rising up and greeting me. Reminding me. The ocean, its just over the glowing smog filled sky? Is that orange the glow of the lights just over the hill? Or the radioactive smog from what we've done to this place? Either way its energizing to look at and I don't mind it. In fact the opposite, I enjoy it.
Its exactly the kind of thing that triggers me to grab my camera and find something to photograph. Though I haven't carried my camera anywhere in weeks if not months. At least not that I can readily recall. And I don't count my little pink point and shoot and churns out depressingly low res images. Leaving me unable to print proudly anymore than a 5x7. (I printed a photo of Lea at 8x10 and it wasn't too pretty, I was highly dissapointed)
So here I am. Living "the dream" in Cali. Is it all its cracked up to me? Is it all I ever wanted and more?
Fuck no, its still my life and my life still sucks.
But I'm working on that. One step at a time I think as I speed toward home.
Home ... that's California. Not Phoenix, Louisiana, TN indiana michigan or New Mexico.
My home is California. . .
That's an awesome statement for me alone.
I may never have kids. I may never get married. I may never be rich or even have a dog, but I call California my home.
I knew it would be tough in the beginning. Maybe even way past the beginning. Maybe even the rest of my life. Life was not meant to be easy afterall.
But every drive home I get a little sad. Or maybe just get to think about my sadness. I come home, the apartment is dark except where Lea has left the rope light dimly lit for me.
I sit here in the dark, the fan blowing on me, the glow of the computer screen hynotizing me. And finally after a few months of simply not being able to, I cry. I've wanted so badly to cry for months now. Not that I have all that much to cry about.
Just one way to cleanse the body of all the crap that I think pollutes your soul. I know I keep my sadness locked away and even now was only able to squeeze one tear out. I'm sad, but I cannot cry.
Sadness is not a bad thing. Anything in moderation is not bad. But I like to get it out of me nonetheless. And not crying I feel as though its locked inside and i can't get to it. Perhaps can't explain it or put my finger on it. It evades me.
I talked to my friend Scott earlier online before work. I miss the hell out of him and I have no quams about telling him so. He's one of those guys that you'd be hard pressed to ever get to admit that they even think you are an ok human being. Nevertheless he talks to me and seems to tolorate me on occasion. It brightened my day when I said I missed him and said he probably didn't miss me at all. He said. .. sometimes. Like a glimmer of hope. Somebody I value might just value me a little as well. You wouldn't think that kind of thing would be rare, but when you are me, and you meet as many flakey, rude and inconsiderate men as I have, you start to think the worst of people, and you sometimes forget that there are in fact people living in this world that care about you.
Like Brian. My highschool sweetheart. He's all the way in washington dc I think. But he opens with "Hey Rockstar" and always asks me how the boys are treating me, and I say crappy and he says dumbasses and I smile because I know he really cares. Just as I will always care about him. He tells me about his flight attendent (very little actually, but he makes mention that he hasn't seen her lately, but needs to call her) And I smile to myself, Brian and a flight attendent ... how cute is that?
Maybe its only cute in my head. But it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside to know he's doing well. I wish I could hug him right now.
here comes one more tear. . .
But only one *sniffle
He's not the only man from my past that I know cares about me. There is of course the one I affectionately call the jailbird.
I got a letter from him yesterday. I always get excited when I get mail from him. Make me feel loved. I rush to a comfy chair and read it right away. I constantly try to remind myself to write him, but its hard to sit down and think out a letter. What I should say, what I should leave out. And trying to remember the stories I wanted to tell him, but didn't write down as the happened. Forgetting what I have already told him and what I haven't.
I know he cares though. He tells me so in every letter. I wish visting him were just as easy as hopping in my truck and driving across town. Its a lot more complicated than that. Going back to Arizona. Showing up in the window of time they dictate.
I need to get there though. His birthday is coming up. Its not for a lack of want that I won't be there. With the job and the possible move and the expense and the time and the drive. One of these days I'm just gonna have to say fuck it and go.
*sigh
I'm not all that tired. its almost 4 am now. And I'm barely even sleepy. But I need to get to bed. I have to go see a man about a job tomorrow. Cuz I can't live on what they pay me very much longer. But we'll see.
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