Starting with the man in the mirror

DO NOT READ THIS:

Self Care is the greatest middle finger of all time.



*

What's that terrible noise. 

That's the only thought I'm able to get out before my fall from the wrinkled futon. I barley acknowledge the injured fingers my thigh lands on as I force my eyes open. 

My ram-shacked home materializes to greet me a 'good morning'. All I do is grunt back. Gus, the man at the Pizza Hut driver in has better manners, but at least it's something. Speaking of which, the empty cardboard lies open, a dark oval inside, sitting just on top of my dinner table. 

Then I remember.

I leap to my feet, with amazing dexterity, and run to my cell which, if my deluded memory serves, is at the kitchen table. It takes until the third ring that she answers. I swear that I'm going to come, rehabilitation is going swell, I'm regaining my stability, and I won't fuck it up this time, like always.

I lean on the window pane as I repeat the last part back, as she demands.

*

Night 1

Get to work.

It seems like just another day here at Starbucks. It's been at least a month since I stopped trying to remember how many Espressos and Flat-whites I sold. From then on, it was a matter of not putting the cream in Espressos and ensuring those Seniors that I didn't screw with their Cappuccino's. Why fight the urge to let things be what they are. Making a game of tedious work was something Sam, the man from my group, said was productive. Foolish to of me to believe him.

Now as I await the Pumpkin Spice Latte for one especially sugar infused girl, I tap my foot. From the mirror on the corner, I see her tongue hang and her hips shake in front of her phone as if posing for a photoshoot. I roll my eyes. At least you're in a better place than they are, my inner voice mutters.

Ding. I cap it, ask if it's to go, and adjust accordingly.

Have a nice day, miss. I say in the most authentic tone I can muster.

She nods with disinterest, only letting the glower slip when she exits the store.

*

Night 2

Rehabilitate. In the real world.

When I'm let off duty 9:00 at night, I cuss every step of the way. I reflect on what happened that I'm in this position. The choices

The position where when I feel insulted by a co-worker or a customer, I feel incapable of quipping back. Like I used to do before dad.

When he found out I was on weed and rum, it seemed as thought they were going to bring me straight home for sure. I could barely look at his Clint Eastwood eyes as I protested. I argued that I had enough money, I was trying to get the gig at the town bulletin, and I'd be on my feet before Christmas came. But it's hard to make good points with my neglectful dad, even if he is the chief of police.

Pulling up to Pizza Hut, and waltzing in, I order one box. It takes only a minute, and I hand him a 20, and pretzel my index fingers as I wait for change.

Don't hide it. Admit I'm shit, and I let him down. Perhaps if he admitted his own hypocrisy, it would seem more feasible. But instead, he mandates I go to guided meditation and rehabilitation five times a week.

I find that all this thinking has obscured my vision until I sit at the red light on Clinton St.

Looks like pity can get me places. Take that, Chief.

*

Night 3

Admit your mistakes.

Seamus! You're turn. 

I jump awake at the shout which, until I saw Bob's face, didn't discerned it as an insult. His face is diseased, pimpled, like a piece of rotting wood. From what I remember, he came here because he got busted selling cocaine to his friends and his new wife blew the whistle. Anytime someone in this rehabilitation program laughed at that, his hoarse roar made them walk home even more embarrassed than when they came. He always liked to wait for the right opportunity to flaunt his toughness, that he was a victim rather than a crook.

But I simply returned the glower and stood.

"My name is Jake. I'm 24. I came here because I have been drinking and avoiding contact with my family. I've been here for three weeks. and like most of you, I need help."

"I know you do, Jake. Your soul's more broken than most, but all people are worth healing. Isn't that right." Says our guidance counselor, Ms. Drew.

Nods and mumbles ripple through the circle of men and women in folded chairs.

I manage a 'thank you' in the most earnest yet cold way I can to avoid snickers. Why should I keep my mask on here? These people are no more refined than me, so why hide the shit i sit on. Perhaps it is because you know these people exist everywhere. They walk all around the city but the addicts and faggots here, like you, are the ones that got caught. Justice, like medicine, is bitter.

In my self pity, I miss two others take their turns. Now it's Sam's turn.

I can hardly wait.

*

Night 4

Help a friend or neighbor.

Fuck, how long has it been since I held a glass in my hand. Too long, I think. This was a courtesy of Ms. Packer, the concierge at the hotel I'm renting in. But as my fingers run down the cold perspiring drink, I can't help but wonder if I even deserve company and a repose from my hardships. Of course I don't. But Ms. Drew said I should always keep an open mind.

"Ugh, that lightbulbs been a goddamn nightmare. My mother's expecting me home tonight, and I was worried I was going to add the electrician to my plate. "

"Does she come home often?"

"Too much for my liking. I'm still checking in on whether refusing a Senior citizen's entry is a crime."

I nod, rolling my eyes playfully. I figure I at least deserve to acknowledge that the circuiting class from high school has paid off in some small way. Why haven't I-

"So I hear you're off for the summer after college. Got any plans?"

Of course I have plans. I have plans to solicit my ass off trying to get a gig at any newspaper. In my prime, writing fiction was the finest thing I could do. I kept a notepad in my pocket during college with notes on ideas for fiction. One could say the notes themselves were a piece of art. Not anymore. Not it was rubbish. My hope was rubbish. it was all rubbish ever since-

I cock my head and then it rings, the realization washes over me like sweat. She's still sitting across from you with a knowing look.

"How many times has he come in here?"

"Oh, just every week. He gets me a drink at the bar sometimes. He was actually surprised you were able to afford it here. I keep telling him that the only thing stopping him from going up there is knowing what button to push on the elevator, but he never does."

"Has he told you that I'm in a court mandated program."

"Only every time I see him. But despite what he says, I can't take his word for it. How many times has the chief of police needed guidance?"

"I know that I took it too far, but with the job I'm working, I'm going to manage this. I won't need him to be my crutch forever."

"Uncertainty is the refuge of hope, they say."

*

Night 5

Take care of business, in the interest of money.

The formal man, sporting a payot and glasses, stands in front of the counter, flexing his fingers in impatience. I turn to the machine and I find two cups.

Is he the Sugar Cookie Almond-milk or the Vanilla Latte?

Some part of me thinks it easier to validly argue that there is no difference. That he can scrape the cream off the top with a napkin if he wants. But that's the old me thinking, the drunken OCD boy who thought he was smarter than everyone. Now, whenever you're in public, drop to their level of reason, no matter how deplorable.

Swallowing my surreptitiousness, I ask. "Very full day this Christmas. You're the Latte, right."

Rather than exert his Jewish arrogance, which I, as stereotypical as I am, thought he might do, he raises his hand in respect and affirms my question.

I do not stir at his exchanged humility as I hand him the warm plastic cup. With an 'ah', he waves and turns.

That's a funny thing I learned then. The universe holds a very acute sense of irony. (Copyright The Matrix 1999)

*

Night 6

Admit your mistakes, earnestly.

During the stares I give Bob that night, like always, I begin to think that associating my auburn hair and freckles with a native Irish name is more funny than I let on.

Don't take this as a sign that I'm free to deploy my own countermeasures. I still have a few more steps to go through to earn that privilege. So instead, when Ms. Drew asks us to partner up, I immediately glide to him. At first, I consider mocking his encrusted skin, but I'd rather have the insults be subtle than direct.

"About a month in here. I've been here, I mean."

"Is that so? Too bad good behavior doesn't charge the batteries of Ms. Pompous over there."

Unsure where to build off his remark, I proceeded, "But I heard from Ms. Drew that I'm getting close. But I think you've got a much better chance of release than I."

The rules say nothing about making the conversation more interesting. His curt sniff of air and wrinkled forehead indicate he thinks likewise.

"Probably, But while we're on the subject, who did you hurt."

"My dad. I thought I could chew what I bit off, but instead he's now helping me. How low can you go, huh?"

"Yeah." His wrinkles recede as he head bobs like a hummingbird's wings. "Too fucking right. My wife says she gonna give me one more chance so long as I do this. I thought it was just anger, but these freaks here have taught me a thing or two."

"Like what?"

"We need to make our own justice, Seamus. If we don't like the rules, we adapt."

After a month of this torture, pouring out my counterfeit feelings, letting the loud engines roar in my head behind the coffee counter, and when I try to sleep, I never imagined that Bob, the man with the glossy plump face would say something thoughtful.

But this was not only a misconception born from my prosaic lens; I saw him in a different light. I recognize that smart people don't mull over trivial revelations like this, but I made enough decisions to rule me out of being a dumb one either. This is what they call progress.

As they say, sometimes something has to be silenced for something else to be heard.

*

Night 7

Clean up.

Could anyone picture me in a palace of my own, because with the way I'm dressed, I'm more than royalty. Turns out the two piece tuxedo that I wore from my graduation still fits me, and it's been sleeping in my closet since. Before pulling the tight-ass shirt on, I got rid of any trash still left in my apartment. When I'm finished, I judge myself, something I've also decided could be useful in my rehabilitation.

There are still crumbs on the floor, and my clothes don't know their folded positions from the stains they received from the course of my day. Still, I reckon, even Bob would acknowledge this as a step forward.

This is going to be a very big day.

*

Night 7.5

Clean up.--and don't forget the present!

Shit, Shit, Shit.

I hate to think of what me on all the previous nights would say to begging a Chinese vendor for a pack of flowers. But, when I present him a 20, he hands it over without further resistance.

I dash to my car, illegally parked across three spaces.

As I look at my watch, I'm not sure whether dad finding me would be a good or bad thing.

*

Night 8

Repeat.

An aroma of chocolate icing fills the ballroom. The faux Jacquard silk curtains cloak the window panes like the wings of a great bat. An incandescent white clings to the columns guests from the moon and blinding skylights on the neighboring skyscrapers.

Among the guests, you see your former girlfriend, Madelyn. The Portia Draped Lavender dress clings to her so firmly, I'm certain that her mother scandalized it to her wits end. You don't see anyone following her around as I slip seamlessly into the crowd.

A part of me wants to snatch her away to the glass frame, ask her to look out at the world in all its potential and splendor as I did years ago. Slowly, we let our hands interlace, stand like that as if we had no other friends, and let the rhythm of the world decide what to do next. 'Living in the moment' was the only rule I followed then. But it turns out both my conceptions of friends and rules were wrong. The more you have, the better you are. Another slice of irony.

Instead, when her sapphire eyes find me, I wave, and she does likewise. I swear i could see the shimmers from the lamps made her teeth sparkle.

Though no other guests recognize me, I know the host. Mr. Paul Jacobs, hedge fund manager who worked with Wall street, and the only man I consistently held in high regard, sober or stoned. I met him as a child when my father took me to the parade, and he always appeared nicer than he ever was. The mind of a child, I suppose.

He's in a semicircle of ladies and gentlemen, his grey hair slicked back as always, and a self assured but not lax smile that practically stretched the length of the room. Perhaps I should go talk to him, see if he can offer me any good job for the summer, not that jewish uncles and tiktok influencers weren't enough fun.

But then I think of my appearance, and I reflect on the rules I've made and wonder if they've changed my perception at all.

Incredible! My hairs in curls, there are some pieces of lint on my lapels, my breath smells like vomit, and no one notices any of it. There's only one way this night could go wrong, and that's-

"Charlie? I thought you'd never come." A bass yet distilled voice calls from behind you.

"Neither did I."

NOTE FROM AUTHOR:

Happy New Year, from Henry Riddle.