Max: Brain Dump 10001
It was quiet.
so quiet
It was dark.
no light
It was cold dark oh so alone.
He wished.
He hated parties. He hated the mandatory joviality, the empty conversation.
If he showed any sign of not enjoying himself, they would destroy him.
Not really.
They would try to gently enforce the happiness requirement. They would politely ask what they needed to do to force him to act as happy as they acted. Otherwise known as trying to cheer him up.
For his own protection he smiled, pretended to sip whatever vile concoction was handed him by the self appointed bartender and said the most inane thing that came into his head when someone spoke to him.
He wished.
He was having a good time. He liked these people, enjoyed their company. And Mike could mix one hell of a... whatever he called it.
The fact that somewhere in the back of his brain he was roaring down the highway at 90 mph on his Harley - a Harley, he didn't actually own one - just made him more happy.
Damn it.
He had always been cursed by happiness. He was raised by loving parents who always had time for him. Mom and Dad never fought. It's not that they always agreed with each other. Rather, instead of fighting it out, they had high school style debates in which each presented a reasoned argument and rebuttal until agreement was reached. He was even invited to join in.
"After all, these decisions affect you and it's never too early to develop your powers of reason," they would say.
He was far from spoiled, but hardly ever punished. Instead, when he did something wrong, his parents would sit him down and explain at length why what he did was not the best choice he could make. If he did it again, they would have him write an essay defending his actions and then they would analyze his argument and explain where it was flawed. As far as he could remember, he never did anything a third time.
Damn them and their love of reason and knowledge.
Actually, he thought, I need to call them before it gets too late. He needed to reschedule his weekly chess match with his father.
Serial killers have all the fun. They get to do horrible things to people for absolutely no reason and did not feel even slightly guilty about it. And suicide bombers. The strongest action he ever took was writing a carefully considered letter to the editor.
It's not that he could never be a suicide bomber. Everybody has their breaking point. He could see himself wrapping himself in explosives, walking into a government building then pushing the dead man's switch. Of course he would probably feel guilty about killing people, so he would warn them and give them a chance to evacuate to a safe radius before letting go of the switch. He felt that would be more effective. Instead of angering people by killing innocent bystanders he would be a genuine martyr. From a publicity perspective that would have more street appeal.
College was almost as bad as home. He could not find a single class to hate. Even if the professor was a little dull the subject always piqued his interest. He had friends, tried a few drugs. He even had Sue, a friend with whom he shared mutually satisfying, no strings attached sex. He kept in touch with all of his friends, who also doubled as a great business contacts. He kept in touch with Sue, too.
Dammit. He even had a great sex life. It wasn't even dirty or sleazy or selfish or soul crushing. How many people on this earth have a friend they can call almost anytime to get together, have a fun night out and cap it off with great sex?
Fuck.
Somewhere deep inside him there was a lonely, angry, heroin addicted poet screaming to be set free.
He wished.
His job is great. He wouldn't be having so much goddamn fun at this party if he didn't like his coworkers. His boss was more more like an assistant than a boss, constantly there to make sure everything was just right, that not one single annoyance interfered with his work. He loved his work. He happily works 50 hours a week. He'd happily work 80. Mark Twain said something like, "Make a living at something you love and you'll never work a day in your life."
The asshole was right. He was getting paid a ton of cash to do a job he would do for free.
His life outside of work was great too. Besides his parents and Sue, he had friends constantly taking him out to dinner or having him over to see their new home theater or swim in their new pool. And they always let him know that they knew people who would get him insider deals if he ever decided to buy a house so he could have his own home theater and pool.
But why buy a house? His condo was great. The walls were practically soundproof. His neighbors were friendly. Everybody got along so well that Condo Association meetings were more like parties.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
What did he do to deserve this fate? Sure he studied hard, worked his butt off and got along great with people. But still. What does a guy need to do to lose once in a while?
He could taste it. Wandering the streets in 7 layers of filthy clothes, swilling 195 proof rotgut from a bottle in a paper bag. He would talk to himself and beg for spare change that people would give him just to make him go away.
That would be the life. Outside the bounds of normal society, a canker on the face of ordinary. But it wasn't to be.
But a guy's got to have dreams.
Sweet, sweet dreams.
so quiet
It was dark.
no light
It was cold dark oh so alone.
He wished.
He hated parties. He hated the mandatory joviality, the empty conversation.
If he showed any sign of not enjoying himself, they would destroy him.
Not really.
They would try to gently enforce the happiness requirement. They would politely ask what they needed to do to force him to act as happy as they acted. Otherwise known as trying to cheer him up.
For his own protection he smiled, pretended to sip whatever vile concoction was handed him by the self appointed bartender and said the most inane thing that came into his head when someone spoke to him.
He wished.
He was having a good time. He liked these people, enjoyed their company. And Mike could mix one hell of a... whatever he called it.
The fact that somewhere in the back of his brain he was roaring down the highway at 90 mph on his Harley - a Harley, he didn't actually own one - just made him more happy.
Damn it.
He had always been cursed by happiness. He was raised by loving parents who always had time for him. Mom and Dad never fought. It's not that they always agreed with each other. Rather, instead of fighting it out, they had high school style debates in which each presented a reasoned argument and rebuttal until agreement was reached. He was even invited to join in.
"After all, these decisions affect you and it's never too early to develop your powers of reason," they would say.
He was far from spoiled, but hardly ever punished. Instead, when he did something wrong, his parents would sit him down and explain at length why what he did was not the best choice he could make. If he did it again, they would have him write an essay defending his actions and then they would analyze his argument and explain where it was flawed. As far as he could remember, he never did anything a third time.
Damn them and their love of reason and knowledge.
Actually, he thought, I need to call them before it gets too late. He needed to reschedule his weekly chess match with his father.
Serial killers have all the fun. They get to do horrible things to people for absolutely no reason and did not feel even slightly guilty about it. And suicide bombers. The strongest action he ever took was writing a carefully considered letter to the editor.
It's not that he could never be a suicide bomber. Everybody has their breaking point. He could see himself wrapping himself in explosives, walking into a government building then pushing the dead man's switch. Of course he would probably feel guilty about killing people, so he would warn them and give them a chance to evacuate to a safe radius before letting go of the switch. He felt that would be more effective. Instead of angering people by killing innocent bystanders he would be a genuine martyr. From a publicity perspective that would have more street appeal.
College was almost as bad as home. He could not find a single class to hate. Even if the professor was a little dull the subject always piqued his interest. He had friends, tried a few drugs. He even had Sue, a friend with whom he shared mutually satisfying, no strings attached sex. He kept in touch with all of his friends, who also doubled as a great business contacts. He kept in touch with Sue, too.
Dammit. He even had a great sex life. It wasn't even dirty or sleazy or selfish or soul crushing. How many people on this earth have a friend they can call almost anytime to get together, have a fun night out and cap it off with great sex?
Fuck.
Somewhere deep inside him there was a lonely, angry, heroin addicted poet screaming to be set free.
He wished.
His job is great. He wouldn't be having so much goddamn fun at this party if he didn't like his coworkers. His boss was more more like an assistant than a boss, constantly there to make sure everything was just right, that not one single annoyance interfered with his work. He loved his work. He happily works 50 hours a week. He'd happily work 80. Mark Twain said something like, "Make a living at something you love and you'll never work a day in your life."
The asshole was right. He was getting paid a ton of cash to do a job he would do for free.
His life outside of work was great too. Besides his parents and Sue, he had friends constantly taking him out to dinner or having him over to see their new home theater or swim in their new pool. And they always let him know that they knew people who would get him insider deals if he ever decided to buy a house so he could have his own home theater and pool.
But why buy a house? His condo was great. The walls were practically soundproof. His neighbors were friendly. Everybody got along so well that Condo Association meetings were more like parties.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
What did he do to deserve this fate? Sure he studied hard, worked his butt off and got along great with people. But still. What does a guy need to do to lose once in a while?
He could taste it. Wandering the streets in 7 layers of filthy clothes, swilling 195 proof rotgut from a bottle in a paper bag. He would talk to himself and beg for spare change that people would give him just to make him go away.
That would be the life. Outside the bounds of normal society, a canker on the face of ordinary. But it wasn't to be.
But a guy's got to have dreams.
Sweet, sweet dreams.
posted by Max Dobberstein at 10/28/2006 12:12:00 PM
9 Comments:
Okay, I hate this fucker.
See, I don't identify with him. I can't imagine anyone would. I want the Harley to get away from a job and bordom that DRIVES ME INSANE - not because I'm extremely happy.
I realize this isn't the begining of a novel, but if it was a novel, I would actually write the publisher and demand my money.
Now, if you were going to write a novel begining here, his next step would be to sit down, write up a startingly brilliant plan on exactly how to lose his job, burn down his condo and break Sue's heart, landing him in the gutter.
Of course, his deffinition of Hell will not let him go. The climax is an intervention. His coworkers, boss and Sue get together to encounter him and get him help. To escape this, he steals a Harley and rumbles off into the night, only to find himself followed by a convoy of silver Subarus containing his tormentors.
At last, he lays the Harley down, leaving behind two hundred yards of friction removed clothing and flesh. He wakes up in the hospital with Sue staring at him lovingly, he can't even get his own death to go his way!
I am not one of his fans either. There is not much of value in this story. It was an interesting practice run but noting more than that.
He's a schmuck who refuses to be happy. That's all there is to this tale. There used to be a part of me like that, but this is a caricature. If he was on that Harley or working on becoming the next Charles Bukowski, he would still be miserable because ultimately, misery is what he wants.
I want to make Jer's version into a move! Someone wanna write me a script? I think it'd be hilarious.
But as for not relating to the guy in Max's story-- I can relate somehow. Not exactly the way it's written, but in that I get a lot of love from my family and friends, and I have a home, etc, but I'm still miserable at times-- but not because I want to be. It's from depression. So, I can relate is a way to the character.
But I do love the idea of him trying to actually make his life crappy, but none of his family and friends letting him do it. It's kind of ironic in a way.
Watch how you use the "I Word" ...
Run with it. I get a 10% cut of the gross.
Um, I don't get what you mean, Jer. The "I Word"? Are you already making this into a movie? What? I'm confused!
begin whisper: Max gets riled everytime someone uses the word *irony* - he eviserates those that misuse the word. :end whisper
Just be careful when you use the "I-word" around certain individuals - mmmmmkay?
But I used it properly, so he had no way to complain about it. :-)
Not really, but I missed it. I will say this one last time before I give up on the English language completely. Irony is using a word or situation, but meaning the opposite.
Examples:
Using the word "great" in a situation that you find to be unpleasant.
Intentionally wearing a football jersey when you hate football.
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