Breaking Good Habits

Anthony slouched over the edge of his bed, “Fuck this, I can’t sleep.” 

This night’s whirlwind of nostalgic memories and past embarrassments landed on one reflection question.

“Could you ever make the perfect day? Will I be able to rest then?” he asked his nightstand of books and vitamins.

Standing up, Anthony chugged a glass of water. He flipped on his desk lamp, igniting an amber blaze like that of a fire. Pacing in and out of the light, he planned on tomorrow — as though he hadn’t already done so several hours prior, possibly a day earlier. 

“6:50 wake up — workout — meditate — read! I ran out of time today. We’ll read before we do our journaling and then it’s….” 

Maneuvers, investments, and keeping afloat entrepreneurially. A lot of time and effort, which he wanted. Yet, getting dizzying from pacing a three-meter circle, he carried himself and his anxiety on a night stroll around the city. 

Even though nothing was being accomplished, walking nevertheless always felt productive. If it were a night in the latter half of the week, Anthony wouldn’t dare even step outside his apartment. Night walks with others had an encroachment similar to that of a car tailgating or never pulling your blinds down at night. There was a serenity in seeing the empirical world all to one’s self.

Not hungry but looking to consume something he searched for coffee. Turning down a random corridor, he followed a diner's obnoxiously bright neon signs. Inside, the rays brandished a masochistic uncomfortableness which intrigued Anthony to at least sit down for a minute or two. 

A bell marked his entry, “You guys still open?” 

“Until midnight,” the waitress curtly responded, “You’re really ordering something now?”

“Only a coffee. Black.”

The rigid lips curled into a grin, “I can do that.”

He accepted after the pour that he was not going to bed that night. The day cannot be over if one never sleeps. Plus, diners are for the workers — the ones like him attempting the route of purpose and production. It felt right.

Scanning around, it was abundantly clear that this place is known more for its time of solitude than anything else. Of the few individuals idling alone in booths and tables, none had a plate of food. They did not even take their phones out to escape their thoughts. Everyone in there, especially Anthony, had unspokenly agreed to confront the impulses of neurons in their heads. The loudest silence of sufferings one can put themselves through. 

Wafting in the struggling heat of his drink, he reflected on the moments that led him to this point of quaint above-averageness. Life was good from all accounts of living standards. Born naturally lean, Anthony kept up a good diet with a respectful amount of exercise. As of the past few years, he has taken it upon himself to start reading more, specifically philosophical works. Financially, he can count the rest of the year’s lease paid off with more than enough room to enjoy a few luxuries of his choosing. Yet, in this stability, like a deviant toddler wanting to pull a fire alarm, he sought an adventurous unsteadiness he assumed would have presented itself by now. The play of Life rotated on. Anthony, having practiced his lines and established his costume, waited eagerly off-stage for his queue only to notice there was no director and the theater was empty.  

“I don’t even want this,” Anthony begrudgingly admitted, pushing aside the coffee and leaving $5 for the bill. Yet, he was immediately sat back down after turning into a wall of muscle. 

“Excuse me.” 

“You’re excused, Tony.”

“What?” 

A man with trunks for appendages and a suave smile brought Anthony out of his barstool for an unexpected hug, “Juilia!” he called over to the single waitress, “You know who this is?”

“Not a clue, Serg. A fellow junkie?”

“With wisdom comes age, right?” he laughed, “No though, not Tony. This right here is one of the best men I had the pleasure of doing business with. Ain’t that right?”

Anthony’s cognition finally caught up. Sergio Vale was one of the only engineers who had a blue-collar je ne sais quoi to the craft of constructing. About four years prior, the two speared headed the construction of the Cerventes Skyscraper downtown. It was Anthony’s last project and the only time in his life he encountered someone like Sergio. Wiring, plumbing, name a part of a building facing danger, and Sergio not only had answers but managed to discount the financial strain of such dilemmas. There was never a period of acquaintance between the two. From the time Anthony showed him the blueprints their relationship had skipped two years ahead. 

“Sergio! Wow-er-hey it’s been a minute.”

“It’s by too long!” 

“What are you up to —”

“Shut the hell up, Tony. We are not Porters and Marks that need bullshit questions. What are you doing tonight?” 

“I was just having a cup of coffee.”

Sergio raised his eyebrows, “Here? I know you’re a tough cat but Tony I didn’t see Brown Street as your neck of the words.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean this place is only in business because of the coffee.”

“It wasn’t anything special.”

Sergio smirked and shook his head, “Don’t be shy with me, it’s alright — Hey Julia, a coffee with Peruvian sugar, por favor?” 

Julia walked out of sight for a second and came back with a simple coffee and a packet of sugar. Sergio dropped a $100 and winked, “My baby girl.”

“I’ll be waiting for the day your nose falls off.”

Sergio didn’t even touch the coffee, “Tony come with me. A guy with your looks staying here too long will be bent over in the back alley before midnight.” 

Anthony followed Sergio, trying to be happy but also slightly annoyed he now had to interact, “Hey, Sergio I’m not trying to really hang out —”

“Tony — does it matter if I call you Tony?”

“You’ve always called me Tony.”

“But I never asked you? I now feel bad about that.”

“Don’t think twice. What people call me doesn’t mean much.”

Sergio shrugged, “I’m not sure if I agree with that way of thinking but to each their own — come over here.”

As though Anthony couldn’t find odder spots, he now went from a rusty barstool to a urine-soaked alley. Sergio pulled out a metallic wand with a semi-circular end and stuck the end into the sugar packet. Pulling out a sizable scoop, he snorted the powder and handed the materials over to Anthony.

“Oh, I don’t….”

“Oh, seriously? My bad I just assume —”

“What?”

“I thought you were playing cute back there and saw the coffee but now I realize you just got a coffee.” 

“No, no no… yeah I was walking and thought — Hey! Let’s get some coffee.” 

“On a Wednesday night? By yourself? Half dressed, half under-dressed?”

A queasy heat flashed to Anthony’s cheeks, “It appears so.”

Another jab at the sugar packet and Sergio took a breath. 

“AYO WHAT THE FUCK!”

With every muscle he could abuse, Sergio shoved Anthony against the brick wall, “Who do you think you are? Don’t you got a family? Friends? What about me? You got my number you could’ve reached out to me!”

Anthony’s shoulders were stapled down like pieces of paper. Kicking and yelling, all his reactions were uncontrolled and unexpected as Sergio’s outburst, “W-what are you doing?”

“What a pussy you are! I get it! Living is not the easiest thing in the world but to kill yourself is beyond selfish — above all weak.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me!” 

“SERGIO! WHY THE FUCK WOULD I KILL MYSELF!” roared an unleashed rage from Anthony. So much so, that Sergio loosed his grip and backed off. 

“The fucking coke has you paranoid like shit, man!”

Admittedly, Sergio threw his hands up, “Okay, there might be a point in that — but from an outside view in, dude, nine out of 10 doctors would have agreed with my diagnosis.” 

“Are you kidding me? I’m in the best rhythm that I have ever had in my life!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure! Are you okay!”

“God no! I haven’t been okay since I gained consciousness in a Walmart.”

Anthony, replaying stoic mantras of Marcus Aurelius, centered himself and spoke more succinctly, “Sergio, first sorry —”

“Sorry for what?”

“I felt like this was a moment that required me to say sorry.”

“Oh, so I say sorry too for something and we hug and then kiss before you take me home and fuck me?”

“Jesus Christ — no! There just seems to be a tension that I would like to dissipate right now.”

“You want to get trashed right now?”

“Um-er-why it’s a Wednesday night and I got stuff tomorrow.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.” 

“Really? Because from what I heard you don’t work for Wrightford anymore — and the well-connected individual that I am, you still don’t work for anyone as of right now.”

“Cervantes was my last project, that is correct.” 

Sergio brushed back his thick curls, spinning into the night air, “You are the busiest unbusy man I’ve ever known.”

“Dude, Sergio I’m on this self-betterment grind at the moment —”

“Oh. My. God. Did those words just leave your mouth?”

“I’m serious. I’m in a great spot right now. I work out, read, journal, meditate — I’m getting off the phone. You know?”

“Better that than a drug addict or a patchy-beard incel watching cartoon porn, pongo-sticking around Reddit forums. But, that seems like devolution to me if that’s all your life is.”

“It’s a sacrifice to hopefully be great. Like, at Wrightford things were good. I was good and even a bit happier than now but I would like to do some… transcendence.”

Sergio froze, morphing into a mute whose reaction could be felt without words. Anthony waited several seconds before explaining, “It’s like —”

 “Do a line.”

“I don’t do drugs.”

“I said do a line!”

“No, I said — WHOA! PUT IT DOWN! PUT IT DOWN!” Sergio now had the end of a Glock pressed between the eyebrows of Anthony. 

 “While you’ve been astray, I’ve picked up some armor. Now,” Sergio reached into his pocket, “Scoop and snort.”

“No way is that load —”

BANG! BANG! 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Anthony couldn’t grab the materials fast enough. Efficiently, he stuck the wand in and snorted as a veteran user would. 

“Again.”

“Sergio.” Anthony felt the gun press further into his head, “Fine.”

“Again.”

Anthony followed. 

“Aga —” Anthony was already a step ahead. 

After four generous amounts of coke snorts, Sergio took back the dime bag and put away his gun, “I haven’t shot that thing until now.”

“Still unpredictable as ever.”

“Hey, in a matter of 15 minutes, you met an old friend, witnessed two gunshots, and did four rips of cocaine. You don’t get that hiding away in your barracks. You’re theory. I’m application. Now follow me.”

Anthony, now more awake than he had ever been before, surrendered himself and listened. They headed out the alley and turned a corner. Sergio pulled out his keys and unlocked his car. A cocktail of dopamine had Anthony stimulated on all accounts. But the movements to grab the passenger handle, open the door, and take a seat without second-guessing Sergio’s motor functions took a soldier’s discipline. Before Anthony could even put his seatbelt on, the two were already accelerating down the city street. 

“You know where you’re going?”

“Nope.” 

“Seriously?”

“That’s not how I roll Tony. A wise man once said it’s not what happens to you that makes you great. It’s what you do. And I choose doing based on what happens to me.”

Anthony scratched the back of his head, losing himself to the mirage of skyscrapers and pinball lights of traffic. That is a real quote from somewhere.

“Who are you?”

“Very blunt, Tony. I can get behind that.” 

“We worked for a solid two years together.”

“We did, didn’t we?”

“But we never really saw each other outside of work. Though, it felt like we did.”

“I mean who needed a bar when we had the 88th floor to ourselves?”

“That view.”

“The wind, brotha. Whether it be a skyscraper or a mountain, there is no air like that anywhere else.” 

“Have you changed at all?”

“Probably. Change is constant, it’s life. But that’s never my control.”

“But like job-wise.”

“I make ceramic pots and sell them online — You ever been to Barcelona?”

“I haven’t been outside the country.”

“Fuck off.” 

“No, I just never had the time until….”

“Never seen his work but there’s a guy by the name of Antoni Gaudi who lived there. An early 1900s fella who crafted buildings that even today a guy like me or you couldn’t ever even attempt.”

“What’s so special about his buildings?”

“They don’t make sense. I’ve seen pictures and they look like what a four-year-old would build with Legos — and I mean that as a compliment. I think I’m going to go see them.”

“Yo, red light.”

“Flights can’t be that expensive.

“Sergio, slow down.”

“Tapas and good art.”

“SERGIO!”

A cascade of honks and three small flashes ensued, “What’s the matter with you? Do you need more? Fine, let’s share.” 

“You just blew a red light.”

“And the sun rises from the east and sets in the west. I’ve never done rna a light before so I decided to do it now. Simple as that.”

“Just looking out for you.”

“Why?”

“Well, because I like you and want a good outcome for you and a red light usually means a ticket which usually means losing money which is bad.” 

“Is your goal money with your little self-betterment thing?”

“No, I mean to an extent, but I just want to live knowing I got the absolute most out of me.”

“And that required you going M.I.A? You left me hanging man.”

“I turned 30 after Cervantes and I needed to make sure —”

“Bar crawl.”

“Screw you. Fuck it.”

Sergio grinned, taking several more snorts and directing the way to Miller’s Pub. Then a dive bar called Happy Hour with $5 Gin and Tonics. Then a club called the Happy Ending with $20 lap dances. And finally, at about 4 a.m. after endless buckets of beer and going through all the blow, the pair ended up outside a deathly quiet suburban street. The house they parked in front looked as modest as any other colonial. 

“Bro, I’m fucked up.”

“Tony how’s that for a Wednesday night!” 

“You do this all the time?”

“God no! Otherwise, people would think I have a problem. Tonight I just felt like doing some coke in all honesty.” 

“Where are we?”

“Old stomping grounds. I grew up in that house to the right.”

“Why are we in front of this house? It’s a nice house.”

“You should’ve seen it 20 years ago when it looked like a hoarder’s playground.” 

“What’s the story?”

Sergio turned, facing Anthony square on just as he had in the alley, “Lady worked, I don’t know what occupation, but a seemingly solid career to afford a house like that with no partner.”

“She lived there all by herself?”

“Yup. She had a beautiful garden with roses and all. But it seemed she only left the house to go to and from work. And like water to rock she eroded. She would come home, sit in her lazy boy, and watch those Ad channels for hours on end. I could see it from my bedroom window. Telephone on stayed by and nothing else to spend her hard-earned money on, she ordered everything from 2-in-1 squeegees to Bluetooth Blenders. She had so many gadgets and whatnot that she ran out of space in the house and had to begin filling up her front lawn.” 

“Why do that?”

“Don’t know. She never talked to anyone and no one talked to her. Eventually, the packages just stop. Though the TV stayed on all day and all night. Someone called in a wellness check. And like that,” Sergio snapped his fingers, “She was found dead — and not even just that, she had zero family and zero friends connected to her.”

“I wonder what the funeral was like?”

“There was none. They put her in a morgue, labeled it 3 and that was that. ”

Anthony felt the urge to cry and did so because that was a sad story, this was a solemn moment, and it deserved that respect of emotion, “That’s a brutal existence.”

“Anthony, you’re not committing any atrocities but life is not work. Don’t fall victim to a measurement or goalpost that leaves you cut off from the world. Wasn’t there an elevating energy tonight?”

“Yeah, there was. 

“And tonight won’t ever be repeated nor should it ever be because routine and repetition are death. You transcend simply by living a free will’s impulse.” 

During the drive back, Anthony toiled about how unnecessary he made the recent years of his life. Sure, he was well rested, maybe a bit more educated, and wasn’t working a 9 to 5. Though he looped himself into simply just those things. He had made every day seem as if they were all one project.

By the time they reached Anthony’s apartment, the city’s morning routine was well underway. Getting out of the car felt like breaching out of the water after a baptism. However, instead of walking up the steps, washing his face, and writing this account in a journal, he looked at Sergio.

“This Gaudi guy? You don’t think we could match his play?”

“We’d have a better chance of swimming to Japan blindfolded.”

“How many pots do you have to sell for a roundtrip to Barcelona?”

Sergio’s suave smile lit up, “Let’s make it a one-way on your card and go from there?”

“As long as you get the coffee.”