Published by Cannot tell you when the thought first struck me, or even what sparked it the in the first place, but I have known for some time that my existence is not meant for convention. I hesitate to use the word “destined” in place of “meant,” not being much of a believer in pre-determined lines of time, space, and decisions we may or may not have made. But if I were a peach this sensation of a higher purpose lies somewhere deep within my pit. A call to self-sacrifice. Although I will admit that a majority of my life has focused upon a Darwinian sense of social survival, there remains an undeniable desire to satisfy others. To give happiness without anything in return. And I considered this “character flaw” (some might say) to be my cross to bear. My inner-turmoil. Demon. Whatever you want to call it.
I make others smile when I, myself, cannot.
And so I’ve been the comforting male figure. The rebound relationship. I’ve bargained my heart to heal the wounded and been left upon their recovery.
Three consecutive days of drinking is my Easter weekend. Following a crucifixion at the hands of yet another woman, I retire to my lair and torpedo shots down my throat one after the other. Sitting, starring. The music is muted and only the sound of passing cars from the main street can be heard from the window. I turn the desk lamp off and pour myself another shot. Swallow it without a wince. And I begin to remember that there are billions of people on this planet. That the previous ten years of my life have been but a precursor to the rest. I tell myself,
“I’m the best there is.”
“I can do better.”
These temporary geysers of self-reassurance don’t mean much at first. They are the band-aids over a fresh wound- not meant to heal but protect, preserve. This is why we say,
“There are plenty of fish in the sea.”
“Some thing’s aren’t meant to be.”
Over the next seventy-two hours I consume a dangerous amount of alcohol and continue with the,
“I’m the best there is.”
“I can do better.”
until the words become so permanently fucking engrained in my head that they cease being words. They become ideals. Principals. Because as a coach once told me,
“If you walk away from the huddle and forget the play, never let the defense know it by the expression on your face. Always look and act as if you know what you’re doing- even if you don’t have a fucking clue. Confidence is the key to success.”
Come my Easter Sunday, the stone rolls away from the cave. Expecting to see a shell of a man the spectators gather around. And much to their dismay- I have disappeared. Ascended, transcended, and descended upon the earth once again. Sober with no regrets whatsoever. I’m back on the scene, at the bar buying a drink for a woman less attractive than myself. Because I know that having my tongue down her throat will, in my vein interpretation, provide her something that cannot be bought at the store- self worth.
This is how I preach the good news.
Bystanders envy me- I know it. They envy my ability to rejuvenate, and if the Spanish explorers had had any common sense, they would have strove for my kind of fountain of youth. Because mortality, like personal fate, cannot be reasoned with- only accepted. So focus on the time at hand. In the grand scheme of things, it’s far too short to limp through.
But I am not immortal, and certainly not the second coming of Christ. Every homeless person on the streets of New York has at one point in time made such an outrageous claim. No- I am no savior. Like a seasoned prizefighter I absorb punishment round after round to become champion of nothing but a belt. Still an arrogant, womanizing icon created by popular culture. Fronting a smile for the cameras. A sound byte for the journalists. Telling kids to,
“Don’t do drugs.”
“Stay in school.”
And like many of the athletes of our generation- hypocrites exposed blowing lines, abusing a spouse, – I hit rock bottom. Fall flat on my face only to claw my way up from the depths and begin to process once again.
transcending
ascending descending
Then, seeking revenge like a tick, I slowly feed on the emotions of others. Because the object isn’t to be loved; it’s to be desired.
So I wine them. Dine them. Engage in a sexual recess. And after ignoring their phone calls for the next week I’m forced to remind myself that I’m capable of loving. That the rejection of perfectly capable companions isn’t just some perverse obsession with myself. So I say,
“They made sense in my head but not in my heart.”
“We held opposing views on how the toothpaste should be squeezed from its tube.”
No, I am not the reincarnated Son of God. He preached, “turn the other cheek,” while I relish in an “eye for an eye.” He practiced chastity. Me- sexual deviance and promiscuity. Love versus the illusion of it.
But this feeling remains. A feeling I can feint describe which calls me to fulfill my destiny as the bizzaro version of Jesus Christ.
