Fehér boríték

 The part deux of "two trolls walk into a bar"

Standing to make my indignant exit was probably not the best idea considering Felix had two fellows at his beck and call (and close at hand) that wanted to rearrange my facial features into something resembling mincemeat, but a man has to stand on his (in)dignity at some point, or he will fall for anything. Felix, to his credit, let me sputter a few non words before waving be back to my seat. I have been hauled into his office so many times before I feel that I have my own seat, I just hope it doesn't become the "GI Memorial" seat anytime in the near future. "Sit down, and stop making a scene, you're much too sober to pull it off, drunk you does the histrionics much better." I wish I could say I had a clever comeback, something to put Felix in his place (if Felix even has a place), but I didn't. I shut my whore mouth, and I sat back down.

I sat my ass back down, and wordlessly Felix pushed the white envelope back towards me, "take another look, I don't think you got a good enough gander the disaster that your life is about to become the first time you looked. I sighed, "Felix, I really, really dislike you sometimes, of course that's just sometimes, right now I kind of hate your fucking guts." He smiled, "good you've finally learned how to hate, we are making progress, I'll turn you into a truly useful son of a bitch eventually." I did as Felix instructed, I figured it was the quickest way back to my pints, and I was becoming more and more in need of a pint the longer I was around Felix. He has that affect on me. 

I reopened the envelope. The pictures had not improved with age. They showed a dead body, a dead body that I knew (in its alive state). A dead body that some people, the ones with limited imagination, and a desire to see me swinging none too gently at the end of rope would say that I would have, quite happily, made dead.  The "Man from the North" died hard, he died slow, and he died with someone wanting to prove a point, that was clear from the pictures. "Jesus tits" I said, "Felix why did you want me to see this? Sure I knew the bastard, sure I didn't like the bastard, but I certainly didn't kill the bastard." Felix glanced at the pictures I had left lying in front of me, "you didn't? That comes as a surprise to me GI, considering I have at least 4 solid, law abiding citizens of this glorious state that said they saw you arguing with the deceased, and threatening to make him just that, deceased as deceased can be. These solid, workers of the highest order will state with no doubt you seemed quite willing to carry out that threat."

"Felix, you are the most complete bastard I know, nothing ever surprises you. If it did, you would just have it shot. I didn't kill that son of a bitch, though I am certainly not going to be lead or any other type of mourner at his funeral. Sure I probably told him at some point that killing him would make my week, but that was also when I was drunk, so if you want to bully someone you should wait for me to get drunk, and bully drunk me. I am, at the moment, painfully sober, a fact you are well aware of, and are the main cause of, so maybe send me back to Sully's to get drunk enough to deal with your latest brand of insanity, or pour me a drink." To my absolute shock, Felix shrugged, opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of very expensive whiskey. Whiskey that would be my brand if I made the kind of money to afford it more than once a year. 

"I know this would be your brand, if you ever decided to join the working class, and hold down a steady job long enough to afford it. So, drink up within reason, I need you tipsy, not drunk enough to consider remarrying your ex wife."  I whistled, "Felix I didn't know you cared. I am touched you keep a bottle just for me around. I don't know whether to be terrified or impressed, but I'll settle for a snort of it and let the whiskey decide. Felix grimaced at my poor joke, and poured me a full measure, and himself a half measure in two glasses produced from the same drawer. I resolved to discuss the fact that my informant (a pretty, little blond girl in his typist pool) had neglected to tell me that Felix drank. I had him pegged as a teetotaler. Taking the proffered glass, I held it up, titled it towards Felix and drank it down with a hearty "Skol!" I figured since we were discussing the Man from the North's death, Skol would be a fitting toast. 

Felix, not being the raging drunk I am, merely took a polite society type sip of his drink, and sat down his glass. "Here, one more for sake of comradeship." I laughed "I am a lot of things, Felix, most of them bad, but if I ever fall to the level of your comrade, I will know there is no hope for me. However, this is very good whiskey, so I'll drink to almost anything, the Pope, the return of the Queen, or to your health as long as you keep it coming." One snort later, I felt slightly better, not drunk enough to lose my head and admit to killing the Man from the North, but tipsy enough to make Felix think I might. 

"A full case of that, and I might kill the King of Spain for you Felix but since I'm more of a in theory type of killer, and you got a full roster of in practice type of killers, I guess I shall have to bid a sad farewell to the rest of this and any other bottles." Felix took another gentlemanly sip of his whiskey, and said "GI when you get around to looking in the blue envelope again and count the money it contains, you might realize you can purchase a bottle or two of this 'water of life' for yourself." I sighed, figuring that no more whiskey was coming my way, at least until I agreed to dance to Felix's tune. "Felix, if you're not going to get me drunk, then at least try to make this simple. How am I supposed to have killed the Man from the North, and what "proof" do you have that I did it?" Felix, being the bastard that he is, smiled (again Felix smiling is bad for GI, or anyone for that matter, how did he get his teeth so blinding perfect?) and said "I am glad you asked."

To be continued

Wanderings

 As I write this, I know you've already made up your mind. I know this 'letter' is in vain, and yet here I am writing it nonetheless. I know you're leaving, in theory you left a long time ago in the emotional and mental sense. It is just the physical manifestation of you that has stuck around. It's not a a surprise, you've left before. It is a sad commentary on my life that it generally takes people more than once to leave. They come and go, but never quite leave. It's frustrating, it's painful, and it's fantastic all at the same time. It's just a question if or when you'll be back. I don't know that answer, I've never known that answer, and I probably never will. I am sorry I am not, can not be the man you want or need to be. I am not sure I can be the man anyone needs me to be. That is something I have yet to sort out, and at this advanced age, I am beginning to wonder if I ever will sort it. 

The process of you leaving is a painful one, it is not something I enjoy watching, especially since, in theory, I am supposed to be able to stop it. Maybe you'll head west, maybe you'll be in Amarillo by morning, or Los Angles to live forever, maybe you'll wash up on the beaches of Cheyenne, or Denver with the snowfall.  Or maybe you'll head south to somewhere like Cartersville, Georgia, New Orleans, or San Antoine, where they like to break legs. Who knows perhaps you take out for points east, head up to Boston in the springtime with friends who have lots of room, or spend some time in New York, New York. Perhaps north suits your purpose, they say Cleveland is cold, and south Detroit doesn't exist, but somewhere up there is the starting point of the Mississippi River that you can cross in five steps if you try. Who knows where or in what direction you'll go, all I know is that you will go, and that is enough to break the springs of my soul. 

I know for the time you are gone, I'll be in love with your ghost for a while. Ever been in love with a ghost? Of course you haven't. Let me clue you in to how it feels. You pine away for something that used to be, something you had and then lost. The major problem is you've no real idea how you lost it, which is a bit sad and perplexing. Your first instinct is to blame yourself, because if someone ghosts you, then it must be your fault right? Which is what they want you to think, as they fade into the mists of your history, they want you to blame yourself. They want the cancer of your intellect to feed upon, and eventually destroy itself thinking it is your fault. 

Truth is you have left for fairer weather, leaving me in the middle of a storm of painful self recrimination. and worse self -doubt. You have made me doubt myself, not the greatest accomplishment in the world, but one that redounds to your fame. You are sailing happily away, indifferent to the fact that you left me tearing myself apart searching for some sort of actual reason that you left. You leave me here stupidly in love with your ghost, expecting you will come back, because you have before, and idiotically hoping that you will again.  The smart money, which is not my money, is that I have seen the last of you. It's the easy  bet to make, and the easy to pay bet. The bet that simple minded men who don't like to take chances place. The type of bet that you expect to pay something because it's simple and it's safe.

Simple and safe are not words anyone would use to describe you, and the bet I place in my storm of goofiness is that you'll be back. The odds are not forever in my favour, nor will they ever be. I want to let what happened between us stay in the past, but all we have is a past. We have had a fleetingly attempt at a present, but never really possessed a future. The joy of this for you at least, is that wherever the fuck you are, you will sleep the sleep of the 'just' tonight. Safe in the knowledge/belief that you've done nothing wrong. Drooling the drool of remorse into the pillow of regret is not something you will be doing. No, the sleepless nights belong to me. The one you left, the one still trying to sort what I did wrong.

However, after considerable thought, I have eventually, slowly, come to the conclusion that I did not do anything wrong. Forgiving you is easy, not that I have, or ever will, but that the easy bit. It's the forgiving myself that is that hard bit. Being stupid is something that takes a long time to forgive. Don't give a scorpion a ride across the river and be shocked when he stings you in mid stream and drowns you both. I want you to burn to the ground, but I stubbornly refuse to light the match to make it happen. More the fool to me I suppose. Somewhere in me are another 2-4 thousands words telling the world what a disaster you are, and what a fool I am/are for standing around waiting for you to return. Those words need not be typed tonight. Let's just settle for the simple fact that, to quote Blink 182 "I love you, but I hate you." 

For those of you that wonder where Felix has been, fear not he's still here, and with these two bad attempts at writing, we have rekindled Felix's interest in ruining our life. 

 

The River

 As you wake up drenched in sweat, it takes you a moment to realize that it isn't water from the river a former friend of yours was pushing you into just a scant few seconds ago. It was a former friend your certain of that much, the details are hazy. This haziness isn't brought on by alcohol for a change, but from sleep, that wide blessing that has eluded you as of late. You had shared a fair amount of alcohol over the years with that former friend, and truth be told alcohol was probably the main cause of the "former" part of your friendship. As you continue down the boring path to complete and unwelcome consciousness, you wish the fellow that is screaming would shut up for a moment so you could think. That is when it becomes painfully clear that the fellow doing the screaming is you. It was that scream, timed with the feeling of hitting the cold water of the river that is the reason of you being awake. As you take stock of your actual situation you realize you are merely at home in bed. Sure you're curled up into a ball of sweat soaked terror, but you are at home, not sinking towards the bottom of a very cold river. 

You manage to stifle the second scream, and feel around your surroundings. The bed is empty as usual. You, the sole occupant are the main reason for its sole occupancy. Something to do with, being "emotionally crippled" or at least that's the main thrust of the argument you had with the last dual occupant of the bed right before she removed herself from the scene on what is beginning to seem a permanent basis. Pity that, she was a fun playmate, and helped to keep the wolf of coldness away in a lot more interesting ways than an extra blanket does. Further inspection shows you that the extra blanket in question has also left the scene and is now lying in a neglected pile at the foot of the bed. If blankets had eyes, you suspect it would be looking up from the floor at you with a slightly hurt expression as if wondering what it had done to deserve to be discarded in such a fashion. At least you and the blanket would then have something in common, because you also wonder that exact same thing quite often, and as of yet have failed to come up with or be provided an answer. 

You doubt the question will be answered anytime soon or at all considering the "I hope you die in a fire" speech she left you with as the door slammed on her way out, but hope springs eternal as they say, and maybe today will be the day. Now that you are completely, unhappily awake, you also begin to put together the fact that the former friend that was pushing you into the cold river is the same former friend that was the cause of the exit stage left departure of her. It did teach you a life lesson or two, one is when you move into a new abode to make sure the doors are sufficiently sturdy to stand a good slamming, two hide the matches and other fire starting material, and three most of your friends appear to be cunts. It's that last one that stings the most, after all you are not the type to make friends easily, and losing one of a solid cadre of like five actual friends is much more of a loss than it would be to the social butterflies of the world. Social butterfly is not, and never will be a term applied to a description of you.

However much as you wish your subconscious would pick a new theme to use in place of an actual alarm clock to jolt you awake, it seems to be on a run of death in convenient rivers. A theme made all the more fun by the fact that you can't swim a stroke, in fact you sink like a stone in any body of water you happen to find yourself in (on purpose or not). Your former friend knew of your stone like quality (when it comes to bodies of water) and perhaps that is why they chose a not so friendly push to help you along your way to becoming deceased. It would be like them to pick a cold river to use to decease you, since it is pretty close to the opposite of dying in a fire. You are not sure if that is irony or not, and if it is you are certainly not sure your former friend is clever enough to come up with the idea. More likely the river just happened to be handy. And if a woman can't find you handsome, she should at least find you handy.

Perhaps a move to a desert would help? Hard to drown in a desert, but then again you figure if anyone can manage it you could. At least rivers do solve the 'where to bury the body' problem, and saves the expense of a decent shovel, and the effort of digging a hole. After all, the killing of you (or anyone for that matter) is really only have the problem. Unless, you really want to get caught, have a really good reason (or lawyer) getting rid of the body is a useful way to help hide the fact you've made the person into a 'body' that needs to be disposed of. No one wants to answer awkward questions about their whereabouts whilst being shown pictures of a dead body. The questions might be just as awkward, but answering the "have you seen X lately" is a lot easier to answer than "so you shot him how many times?"

Rivers are generally an accepting lot, they don't discriminate on race, creed, or political beliefs, hell rivers will take all sorts of trash, even Liverpool supporters can be dumped into a river with no fear that the river will reject them. Some lovely, secret hoarding rivers even manage to never give up the body you none too gently offered it. They will take it into their cold embrace and let it find its way to the bottom for all eternity. Of course, the lead weight you attach might facilitate that along, but who has time to attach cement shoes to a body they are pushing into a river?  Being the drowning sort, you've never really considered the body disposing qualities of rivers in any depth. You doubt you'd ever be in a position to have to get rid of a dead body, and you also figure that on the way to depositing aforementioned dead body into a river, you'd probably somehow contrive to drown yourself as well. Which would at least save you the awkward question phase of the drama.

Of course, some rivers are better than others in their ability to accept unwilling partners. They need to be deep, and cold helps as well. The colder the better, and your brief recollection of the river you were being introduced to was that it was sheep stealing cold. Maybe it was the water, or maybe it was the fact that the extra blanket had been discarded but cold was the main theme of piece. Cold as your ex's heart as you like to say, but in reality she wasn't cold, in fact she had a warmth about her that could have been the reason you wanted her around to begin with. After all, blankets are nice and all but they just don't suit certain purposes. 

** This aside was brought to you by the second nightmare of being drowned in a river, and while a poor effort it was at least an attempt to get back to writing. An attempt that while poor, has been encouraged by a few people for which I am grateful. I just wish the result was as good as the encouragement.