Rocketman
by Hampton
1
The silence stretched long between them.
He stared at her. She stared at the floor.
“Do you really mean that?” he said.
“I do.” she replied. There are those moments in your life when one sentence can change everything. When time freezes and everything shifts. When the ground shakes beneath your feet. When the flood-gates open and everyone drowns.
“You know you saw it coming.” she continued. She was right, he had seen it coming. But, no one, especially him, wants to admit when they have wasted the last 10 years of his life. “Have you been happy? Because, I sure haven’t. I know you love the kids, I know you wanted to love me, but it’s not going to work in the future, because it’s never worked.”
The silence continued. His mind was reeling.
“What happens now?” he asked.
“I suggest you leave,” she said coldly.
“It’s my house.”
“I found your porn.” Silence. “That really was the last draw for me. When I realized we hadn’t had sex in two years and that you’d rather look at pictures on a screen than touch me, then I realized it’s over. Get out.” She had dropped her bomb.
“Maybe I wouldn’t need it if you weren’t such a fucking ice princess.” His outrage boiled at the intrusion into his fantasy life. The only life he lived that was worth a damn. “What? Would you rather me fucked my secretary?”
“That’s absurd. I’m not saying you’re a bad guy, just the wrong guy. I think it’s better if we don’t see each other. The kids will be home soon, I suggest you leave. Or would you like me to tell them their father is into hot asian pussy?”
He got on the highway, leaving the upper-class suburban area, heading to where the motels are cheap and don’t ask questions. The last thing he needed was to run into a visiting client at a downtown hotel.
On his way to the motel, he stopped in a liquor store to buy a bottle of Johnny Walker Black. The parking lot of the strip mall which hosts this ABC store is empty save for his SUV. The fluorescent lamp posts creating pools of synthetic light on the asphalt. After walking around the store for a minute, he realizes that a fine establishment like this doesn’t even leave the decent stuff out. He spots the familiar black labeled bottle behind the clerk who is behind a scratched and dented plastic barrier.
As he walked up to the window, she was reading some glossy magazine while chomping on her gum. He noticed her nose piercing. Her stringy black hair. Her ill-fitting clothes. Her outfit screamed “trailer park rebel.” Almost goth, almost redneck. Her small tits buried under her clerk’s outfit. What was she, 17? 20?
“Can I have a bottle of Johnny Walker Black?” he says.
“What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this, at this time of night?” she asks. Great — questions. Just what he was avoiding.
“Staying at the motel down the street,” he replied coldly.
“Are you fucking your secretary, or did your wife kick you out?” she says as she continues to chomp on her gum. He stares at her cherry red lips. “’Cuz those are the only two reasons someone dressed as well as you would be here, buying this at this time of night. Since you’re buying Johnny Walker, and I know no woman would ever drink that, it’s obviously not your secretary. Well, it could be your boyfriend — but you don’t look like the type. If you were a queer, you’d have dressed better. So, your wife kicked you out, right?”
“Just the bottle, please,” he says, avoiding the question.
“I knew it!” She grabs the bottle from behind her. “That’ll be $32.53.”
His motel room looks like it hasn’t been remodeled since the Carter administration. The brown bathroom tiles, the macramé walls, the fake wood paneled TV-set. He sat on the bed in a daze. He grabbed a plastic cup from the sink and prepared a shot. First shot. Pouring another.
What had happened? No time for that now. He needed another drink and a good sleep. Everything had changed. The bitch had kicked him out. And for what? It was his god damned house.
The second shot raced down his throat.
Why was he sitting in this shit-hole hotel? Just because he looked at an Asian girl getting fucked up the ass? If that was it, then every husband on his street deserved to be kicked out by his wife. It was young girls of Asia that were keeping half of the guys on the block from either fucking a waitress or blowing their brains out.
Third shot. God damned your not supposed to do Johnny Walker as a shot. He should have gotten something else. Then again, he hadn’t felt that burn in a while. The pain felt comforting.
Every wife should be sending thank you notes to Malana, the Anal Slut Queen of Kyoto. The good schoolgirl who misses National Prayer Day at the temple, and therefore must be properly punished by her headmaster. Nothing is more fitting a punishment then getting gang banged by the faculty. Right? A plot more perfect and moving than Citizen Kane.
Fourth shot. Getting light headed.
Why had he been so embarrassed anyway? It’s just porn. Why had he left at her request? He should have stayed and swept her off her feet. He should have kissed her and bedded her right there on the dining room table.
What happened to the man he once was? What happened to the girl he married? The girl who would watch kinky porn with him. The girl who would scream “Fuck the world!” with him off the rooftop of their first apartment together. They had traded oral sex for a two car garage. They had traded saving the world with paying less taxes. They had traded freedom for children. Where was the girl he planned on traveling the world with?
Fifth shot.
He had become what he had most feared in his youth, a shadow of the man he could have been.
He woke up the next morning on the floor next to the bed. His back hurt like hell. His head was pounding. It was a Monday. What had happened?
“Oh, that.” he said out loud as the previous nights events rolled around in his mind.
I have work today.
He quickly got ready… save for the unknown amount of time he spent zoning out in the shower. His mind was a complete blank. Nothing was going in or out. All he was doing was going to work. He got in his car, and was on auto pilot. Next to him in the seat was his half empty bottle of Johnny Walker. He pondered the fact that it was half empty. That seemed wrong, for many reasons. First, he had passed out last night with only half a bottle. In his younger years, he could have consumed twice that and still have bedded the cheerleader successfully. Secondly, he was going to need a lot more than half a bottle for today.
He would have to go back to the liquor store for reinforcements.
2
Jackie sat reading her magazine. This was the third time she had read this issue. It was one of those magazines at checkout lines that has the most interesting facts and stories about the life of the stars. This was her second shift in a row. The sun had already come up and she wasn’t getting off until noon. No one else would be coming in to work until she gets off. She hadn’t seen anyone since 2 am.
Reading about the stars really made her feel better. It was good to imagine their interesting lives. She was no fool. She didn’t idolize them, but she did want to be them. She always thought about how stressful it must be to be a star. You can’t go anywhere without people recognizing you. It’s both horrible and fantastic. Like a drug. Her cousin is a recovering heroin addict, the way that she talks about heroin is the way that Susannah imagines stars feel about attention. It’s both the most wonderful feeling in the world and also akin to being raped. It rips your chest open and shares you with the world, which just causes you to sink farther inward.
These magazines have the most private details of someone’s life splayed out on semi-glossy pages that you could purchase with your skim milk for $5.99. Can you imagine everything in your life being read by hundreds of thousands of people every week. It’s like having your organs on display for the masses to feast on. At least it’s interesting. That’s what she likes about it.
All of that business is completely the opposite of her life. Her life involves sitting behind a plastic barrier, doling out liquor to drunks in the middle of the night. She works hard; for what, she’s not sure. She isn’t one of those noble creatures from this part of town who work hard to get a degree in marine biology or to get pass their bar exam. And neither does she have a baby. She’s just paying for herself. Saving up money. The reason? She really can’t think of anything better to do.
Just as she was finishing an article about the latest breakup, the door chimes. It was the guy from last night. That semi-cute older guy. He could use some exercise to get rid of that slight gut, but otherwise, he wasn’t bad. He was mid-thirties. Obviously not from around here. He was wearing the same clothes. She thought he looked like someone had hit him over the head with the bottle she had sold him last night.
“Back again?” she asked.
“Three,” he said as he slid his Visa card under the divider.
“Are you sure?” she asked, concerned. He looked like he had had way too much to drink last night and was in no position to get back to drinking. With three bottles, he could probably kill himself.
“Yes,” he said as he stared directly into her eyes.
“It’s your life. But, listen, I’d rather see you back in here alive than killing yourself with this. Got it?”
He got it. He put the three new bottles on the passenger seat and made his way onto the highway. He made up his own drinking game. At every stoplight, he would take a swig. This made traffic and driving to work not so bad.
It took him an hour to get to work, but he barely noticed. Between swigs, he didn’t really think about anything. It hurt too much. It was as if a bomb had gone off in his mind. An entire construct left in shatters. Instead of the torrent of thought that had plagued him last night, he was feeling very, very clear. His mind was a blank and everything seemed simple and cruel. A man with nothing left, has nothing to worry about.
What made all of this even more strange is he really didn’t love his wife. I guess he did at some level. But, not really. The flame had gone. They were together for convenience, not love. Apparently she disliked him far more than he thought. Regardless of how he felt about her, he had built his self around “them”. Around going to baseball games with friends and acting like the perfect couple. That was his life and it was who he was. When a man loses who he is, he has nothing left.
Once he pulled into his parking space, he grabbed his bottles up in his arms like loot and made his way into the building.
He walked quickly with his loot through the cubicles and into his office where he shut the door. He arranges the bottles in a line on his desk. His secretary sticks her head in the door and asks, “Are you alright? Can I get anything for you?”
“I’m fine. A cup would be nice though.”
She stares through the door in near silence. “Okay.”
He looked at the bottles intently. Studied them. Looked at their brown clear contents. He heard a knock at the door. Quickly, he drank the remains of the bottle from last night. “Come in!”
His boss walked in and shut the door. “We need to talk.” The old man took a seat. “What happened to you?”
“She kicked me out.”
“Your wife?”
“Yes.”
“My god. I’m sorry man. But, you can’t just come in here with liquor like that! This is a place of business.”
“Fuck you,” he said slowly. He really wasn’t angry. He really didn’t feel anything. The only thing he did feel was that this guy across from him had no right to take him from his Johnny Walker. He felt he required respect for showing up.
“You need to take some time off. Get out of here.”
“I’m staying. I have nowhere else to go.”
“So be it,” his boss says as he walks out of the office.
A few minutes later a security guard came in and took him outside. At least he got to keep the beautiful bottles. Once he’s in his car, he opens up the next bottle and starts drinking it.
He decides to go back to the hotel. He doesn’t know where else to go.
By this time in the day, the highway was clear and his intoxication was much more obvious. It was only a few miles down the road that he saw the flashing lights in his rear-view mirrors. He pulled over slowly. Or, at least he thought he did. The cop comes up to his car with his gun drawn.
“Get out of your car, sir! Now!”
He’d never been to jail before. It’s exactly like he expected. What he was in now was what was affectionately called the “drunk tank” but was where they put all the criminals they had caught that day who hadn’t done anything super horrible. The guys looked pretty rough. By this time, his head was hurting pretty bad. It was about 4 hours after they had pulled him over. He still wasn’t sure what kind of charges they were going to press. But, then again, he really didn’t give a shit.
Jail didn’t seem that bad. I mean, they give you meals, you get to work out and you get to read. Of course, he knew the truth that if he did go to jail, he would be targeted as being someone’s bitch pretty quickly. You do learn some things from being a lawyer.
One big guy in the corner kept eyeing him. He had no time for this to start so quickly.
“What the hell are you looking at?” he yells at the bald man.
The man’s reaction was both strong and sudden. He stood up quickly and stared across the room menacingly. He began to walk over towards him. Baldy was going to beat-up the lawyer. Or at least, previous lawyer. His license was surely to be revoked now. And this lawyer was going to get his ass kicked.
Then it all became even more clear. He wasn’t a lawyer. He wasn’t himself anymore. He was someone else. His old position as lawyer and father was now done. He was nothing but an animal. Why not kill this bald guy? Sure Baldy was stronger and bigger, but he was smarter. He was no one now and that gave him strength. He was whatever he wanted to be.
The ex-lawyer stood up quickly and surprised Baldy before he had a chance to realize what was happening. He kicked Baldy in the balls and hand him on his knees when he then kicked him under the chin. He was on top of him in a second, beating the back of his head into the cement. He lost count of how many times he heard that cracking sound on the floor.
The other inmates pulled him off the guy who was now nothing more than a lump on the floor. The blood was running to the drain in the middle of the holding cell.
The next day at his arraignment, he was let off easy. They would fine him and make him do community service, but they were going to let him off incredibly easy. It helps when you play golf with your judge. Or well, he used to. The “he” who he was. He wasn’t quite sure who he was now. But, that’s a far better feeling to have than to be someone, and be boringly well defined. “He” was no one.
He was let out later that afternoon. His wife was there waiting to take him home. He walked right past her.
“What about your kids? What about me?” she screamed as he walked out the door.
“Tell them that their father is gone. Tell them that I am dead. Tell them that I am missing. You are a good woman and you will do a great job. I’m done. Your husband is dead. I am no one. I am Jack.”
The look on her face would have melted anyone else but him. She looked as though she had been killed herself. Like she had been stabbed. It was too late though. He was too far gone. There was nothing left. She would be okay. She’d probably be better off alone or with someone else anyway. He had a good bit of saving, she could take them.
He walked out into the city air. Breathed in the fumes. They stung his lungs, but it was beautiful.
He took a bus, or more correctly, several buses back to the motel. When he got back he laid down on the bed, exhausted.
3
It had been an interesting two days. Felt like weeks. Jack had slept for a long time. He didn’t know how long, but it was dark outside. He opened the door to the motel room.
He just stood there staring out into the night. The parking lot was mostly empty. This wasn’t exactly a tourist friendly motel. Not the kind of place you take your kids on vacation to. Since there was nothing to go *to*.
Makes you wonder how motels get built here. Four miles from the highway. Bad part of town. Who exactly stays here? He’d assume prostitutes, but that seemed too unlikely. If you were going to hook, you might as well not pay such (relatively) expensive rates to keep a hotel room. Just use your ghetto apartment.
The air was hot and muggy as it drifted into the air conditioned room. Or maybe it was the other way around and the cold air was escaping his room. Maybe the cold air wanted out. It wanted to flow down to the marshy curb on the far side of the parking lot. The cool air wanted to flow out over the floating bottles of Tide and Winn-Dixie super market bags.
The night was silent except for crickets.
He walked out, still in the clothes he was wearing in jail, and sat on the curb. There isn’t quite anything like sitting out in a muggy Florida evening in the summer when no one else is awake listening to the marsh. Its not a pretty as the mountains. Its not as pleasant as the beach. Its rather uncomfortable, smelly, and odd. But, beyond that, there is a certain frankness to it. Mountains, beaches, and forrests all hide their problems. You love the beach until your four year old son steps on a needle or you have to go to the hospital because of a jellyfish sting on your crotch. A marsh doesn’t play those games. You know a marsh is dangerous. It advertises its danger and its putrid smell.
Its like an honest look at the world right in front of our eyes.
Which, is all rather funny, because this is exactly the opposite of what Florida stands for. Today’s Florida is no longer just retirement homes. Today’s Florida isn’t mostly beaches or towels or Cuban people or old Jews or part of the deep south. Most people don’t know it but Florida, outside of the big cities, is much like rural Alabama. People not from there assume its what it is in the movies. Or that the whole state is like Miami.
But today, all of that is being over-ridden. Hundreds of thousands of middle aged professionals are streaming to Tampa, Jacksonville, and Orlando. No longer do people live on the marsh, but they build over the marsh with endless strings of houses all built to spec by developers. Each one of them selling a dream of strip malls and movie theatres and Applebee’s. This happens all over America, but its not as strong anywhere else as Florida. Developers love it because the land is cheap, its plentiful, and its warm. And that means its easy to lure people here.
They didn’t mention that “Come To Sunny Florida” is code for “Really Fucking Hot.”
Jack was fed-up.
He spent the next two days not leaving his hotel room. He just watched episodes of Law and Order and ordered in Pizza. Thank god he still had some money left in his accounts. I guess being cheap for all those years really did have a payoff.
It was about midnight when he decided to venture off to the liquor store down the road. This time, he just walked. He was enjoying the walk as much as the muggy air would allow him. A week ago he would have been afraid to even drive down this street; let alone take a stroll at midnight. Something in him had changed.
As he approached the store, Jack saw that the same young girl was on shift. He was forming the theory that she simply lived on the stool behind the plexiglass. He could see that someone was in the store already. It was obvious that the man was yelling at her. She was looking annoyed and a little scared. The “customer” was obviously homeless and angry.
The door chimed as he opened it. The hobo immediately turned his attention to him.
“What the fuck are you doing, man?” the hobo slurred.
“Just in here to get some booze.”
“That’s what I’m here for… but that bitch won’t give it.”
She quickly replied as she must have done many times before, “Sir, you have to have money before I can give you anything.” Seconds later the hobo was beating against the plexiglass. The scene turned from comical to violent.
Jack stopped thinking.
The hobos head was being slammed into the ground floor. Someone was doing it. It seemed like it was him. He couldn’t track it.
“What the hell was that!?” the girl screamed.
He opened his eyes.
“What?”
“You almost killed that guy!” She was kneeling next to him. He was on the floor.
Jack noticed that she was paying more attention to the blood left on the floor than to him. At least it wasn’t his blood.
“You’re a real sonofabitch. Most of my customers try not to nearly-kill my other customers. I should call the cops.”
“I’m Jack.”
“I’m Jackie.”
“Coincidence or fate?”
“Coincidence.”
“What time do you get off?”
“Why?”
“Let me buy you some food.”
“I can pay for it myself. You’re a creep.”
“Probably. It’s been a hard week. You were right though… my wife kicked me out. And, that’s the second guy I’ve nearly killed this week. The other one was while in jail. Jesus, the week before I was just an insurance broker.”
“You really know how to woo a girl.”
“I’m not wooing. And you’re right: I am a little rusty. I just want someone to talk to.”
“Fine. I get off in two hours.”
“Perfect.”
“So, what are we doing here?” she asked.
“I haven’t quite figured that out yet. I was hoping you could help.” he replied.
“Alright. What do you need help with.”
“Again, haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Maybe the problem isn’t that something wrong, but that nothing is wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong? Excuse me little girl. I have lost my family, gotten a DUI, and nearly killed two men all in a short span of time. So, you can’t tell me nothing is wrong.”
“Fine, I’m out of here.”
“Stay.”
“What for, you won’t even listen.”
“Alright, I’ll listen this time.”
She paused for a minute.
“I am just making wild guesses here. But, I think I’ve got you pegged pretty good. You sit here complaining to me about your life. Like, its so horrible. You have an education and *had* a good job until you did something to fuck it up. Don’t come crying to me that your high-paying job ended because you ruined it. It was *you* who ruined it.
“There are people in Africa right now dying. Laying in bed and dying. And you have the gaull to tell me that your life is too hard and want pity. Well, life is hard for everyone, but you just want your life to be hard so you can sit here and bitch to me about it. Suck it up.”
With that, she got up and left.
Jack was left with her words ringing and the bill.
4
Jack made his way back to his hotel room. What the fuck was he supposed to do with his life?
He opened the door to his roach-hotel room. God this place was disgusting. He walked in and sat on the bed. Just then he heard the toilet flush in the bathroom and the door open. Jack’s pulse quickened.
Standing before Jack was what appeared to be a hippie. The guy had hair down to his shoulders, a beige burka-like thing on with a brown sash, and a Birkenstock. “Who the hell are you? I’m going to call the police. This is my hotel room!” Jack screamed.
“Whoa, calm down man. I was just relieving myself.”
“Well, get the hell out! I swear I’ll call the cops!”
“Do you know who I am?”
“No, educate me. Then get the fuck out.”
“Seriously man, calm down. I’m Jesus. I’m here to help you.”
“What? Does this actually work on people?”
“Not really. But, I am who I say I am. Who do you say I am?”
“I say you’re some hippie freak whose tweaked out on acid.”
“You’re name’s Jack. You used to have a pet cat named Tiger. Tiger died because you forgot to feed him when your parents were out of town and you lied about it when they got home. Also, you fucked that girl Sarah in University and never called her back.”
Jack was silent.
“So, you’re Jesus, then?”
“In the flesh!” Jesus pauses for a minute. “Want to see a magic trick?” Without waiting for an answer, Jesus shows his empty hand…. then turns his palm over and produces a rolled up joint. Then, in the other hand, he produces a lighter. He then lights up the joint and takes a deep hit.
Jack says, “Jesus doesn’t get high!”
Jesus replies while coughing, “Who…. who…. who do you think made this shit? Me! It was my idea. This shit is awesome. I see you’re a booze man yourself.” gesturing to the array of empty whiskey bottles adorning the room.
An awkward silence ensues.
“So, what are you doing here anyway? If you really are Jesus.”
“Like I said, I am,” taking another drag, “and like I said, I’m here to help you find your way.”
“Ok, so tell me then ‘Jesus,’ what is my way.”
“My sheep are lost. Way lost. Guys like you litter the world, man. You’re here to guide the world back on track.”
“Me?”
“Bingo.”
“And exactly how am I supposed to do that?”
“So, here you are. A broken man. Right?”
“I suppose so.”
“Well, suppose correctly, senior! You’ve hit rock bottom. You can finally see your life for the wasteland that it is.”
“That’s pretty harsh.”
“Fuck’n a. Life is harsh. Its designed that way. The harsh parts of life are what are supposed to make life worth living. But, unfortunately we gave you humans way too much of a brain. So, you’ve found ways to isolate yourself from the harsh realities of life. But, also, in the process, you’ve lost what it means to be human. To be alive. Life is a struggle man.”
“Life is hard enough in the suburbs.”
“Yeah, but its only hard because you have to make it hard. Its hard for imaginary reasons. Its like creating invisible friends in solitary confienment. Its like creating ghosts when you’re too useless to believe anything. Its all a figment. People get upset over the stupidest shit! I mean, take your wife for example. She fucking kicked you out for wanking it. All those years, and the best thing she has to complain about is that her husband masturbates. Give me a break! Throughout the rest of time man has had to deal with *real* issues. Issues like, ‘Can I eat today?’ or ‘Will I die of a terrible disease from the water I’m drinking’. That’s what man is designed to feel. And now that you’ve isolated yourself, there isn’t anything to worry about. So, you make shit up.”
“You’re insane.”
“No, everyone else is insane. This planet is dying. Dying of boredom.”
“What am I supposed to do about it?”
“Give them something to worry about. One at a time. Give them a reason to take the iPod out of their ears and actually connect.”
“How do I do that?”
“You’ll figure something out.”
The silence stretched long between them.
“Aren’t you supposed to dissapear now?”
“Nope! I’m hanging out here until you finish the job. If you don’t mind that is.”
“Well, you are the King of Kings.”
“Sweet, I’m going to order a pizza. You hungry?”
“I’m good.” as Jack hands him a $20.