Walking Into Traffic

It was 8 am. A bong, still smoking, rested on the coffee table at my extended feet. A familiar shame consumed me. In a small way, comforting. I looked around my apartment and thought, “What the fuck do I do now?”

We finalized the papers Thursday afternoon. A half day of PTO wasted. I felt more emotion for loosing the vacation time. I haven’t been sober since I left the lawyer’s office, mindlessly jaywalked across the street and sat down on a stool at Kelly’s Bar across the street. In that immediate moment, my thinking was obsessed that she hired Peek and Leroy. In many ways, that pissed me off more than the situation we found ourselves in. I guess I brought that on myself, bursting out Metallica’s ‘Seek and Destroy’ every time we passed that billboard on ninety-five. Only my rendition consisted of “Peek and Leroy” as the song’s chorus. That memory added to my despair. Passing that fucking billboard all those times. Driving to my parents. Driving to her parents. It unconsciously weaved itself into memories that are now rotten. Recalling all those times I used to think, thank god I will never have to call those two assholes. Contrary to my usual first impression of people, I was correct about these guys. They were, both, true assholes.

I managed to send off an email to my boss letting him know I wouldn’t be working tomorrow either before the blonde bartender returned with the city wide I ordered. Well whiskey with a Tecate can, too fat lime wedge jammed into the opening. No better way to start a bender. But now that it’s Friday morning, and I’m stoned, jailed in the solitary confinement of my new home, I asked myself, “What do I do now?”

The urge to care, to let myself feel, has consumed my days. Shoving those depressive thoughts down into the crevices of my brain and attempting to drown them in whatever substance I could get my hands on. I didn’t care, at least that’s what I told myself. We didn’t have any kids. I love the cats but they love her more, so she took them. Or I gave them up. The useless knick-knacks that polluted our house meant nothing to me, so what did I care about taking any of it. Not that I could fit those things in my new studio apartment anyway. Give me a TV, a folding chair, a dinner tray and bare mattress thrown in the corner. I’ll be a minimalist for a while. Minimalism being a shield to hide the thoughts that I’m not worthy to have furniture in the first place.

I leaned forward and bent back over the midnight black, faux wood coffee table that I purchased from IKEA a week before from the discount section. A not small gouge accentuated the back left corner, exposing the truth of the piece to the world. It’s particle board core revealing the emptiness barely holding it together. I stared into the imperfection as I flicked the lighter and shoved the flame over the bowl again. Taking a slow, deliberately extended inhale. What does one do when in a moment, the last 15 years of you’re life are over? I sat there and contemplated that until the next wave of high enveloped me and that was no longer a care. Last night’s Flyers game replayed in the background, used only to overcome the debilitating silence in this god forsaken flat. Apartment’s are supposed to be noisy, I thought. Where are my neighbor’s footsteps as they get their disgusting toddler ready for daycare? Why is this the one day the gen z’er I share a wall with doesn’t have their “Work from Home Rave” playlist threatening to collapse the building?

Coffee, I thought. If I got one thing out of the divorce, it was going to be the espresso maker. It was a cheap one, less than a hundred bucks off Amazon. But that was mine. I aptly took it from the house before I left. Ironically symbolizing the mistakes that I had made, as I most likely complimented this cheap piece of consumerism more than the partner I had dedicated my life to. I walked over to the galley kitchen at the back of the apartment. The remains of my half eaten cheese steak lay littered on the counter top. Shreds of steak and bread, strewn in areas that it gave me anxiety as to what else I didn’t remember from last night. I opened the cabinet door, peaking in for a millisecond, before shutting the door and thumping my head against the closed cabinet. For I saw what lay within. The emptiness. The denial of my one savior. My one cause for hope. I made a habit of dramatizing in my severely melancholic state. It would appear to any outsider that I opened the cabinet door to simply remind myself that they were indeed, still empty. And that this apartment was as empty as my existence felt in that moment. In my latest bachelor period, I felt it important to have tangible reminders of ones most core beliefs.

“Ugh, I have to go outside,” I muttered to myself. It was mid-October. The weather just last week a balmy 85 degrees but now barely reaching 60. The air needling my face as if I’ve never experienced cold. The tips of my ears caught off guard, as much as I was, that summer was over. The summer of ‘25, I thought. Could be the depressing ballad follow up Bryan Adams always wished for. I assumed. In my mind, the logical sequel being an emo/punk ditty that made you go, “I don’t like this at all.”

Normally, the apartment was two steps to a coffee house. In reality, anything in Fishtown is two steps to a coffee house. But I felt I needed a walk. I had made it this far and was committed to using that to my advantage. “This far” meaning I managed to find two used socks on the floor and slip them between my feet and navy blue crocs. And throw on a black hoodie to match my black sweatpants. My thought process being that the worse I looked, and probably smelled, the less people would be inclined to talk to me. I’ve never truly liked people and today was certainly not the day to test out the teachings of “How to Win Friends and Influence People”.

I reached the end of my block and turned left. Subconsciously, I knew that would be the only direction to avoid a coffee shop. I passed McDonald’s, and under the El. The usual cast of characters were stationed in their usual stoop on the corner. Purple suede jumpsuit guy; no teeth, puffy jacket lady; and sideways velcro hat white guy. I’ve crossed this group many times before. Each time, feeling a tiny poke, reminding me that if I ever needed something stronger than weed and booze, it would be only steps away, just like coffee. If I’m being honest, passing them on that morning was the loudest that tiny voice had ever reached. Whether it be good instincts finally paying off, or my sweatsuit induced social anxiety, I continued walking. Only looking back to see if my wallet had fallen out of the hole in the pocket of my sweatpants.

I was in it rough. And I had yet to accept that the near future may turn out to be the toughest stretch of my life. But even in my stupor, I trusted I could fight through it. These waters were not unnavigable. The last bit I can recall of that morning was the screeching of tires and the woman’s face in the driver seat as I folded over the hood of her Lexus before dropping to the asphalt. No teeth, puffy jacket lady, Connie, as I would come to learn, staring over me, and my mind filling with a peaceful blankness.