Alone, I was. Rocking in my chair; with my cool cigar and my Godfather stare. I raged in silence. I turned to Loran Speck's Onion and said, 'It's us against them, my tear leaking friend. Like it's always been.'

My Name is not important, not anymore, it isn't. Here, with no one else around to breathe all the extra purified air that I own, you can call me Spot if it makes you happy. It's funny how I've worked so hard all my life for my name to be a part of history, such as Ghandi's and Adolph Hitler's, and now the only thing that comes closest to calling my name out is a leafless tree that stands alone outside this country house that I've held myself in for two whole weeks. Right now, I'd like to think of myself as the only breather on the face of this planet. Right now, you can call me God's greatest creation. I am respiration, I am photosynthesis. For the hell of it, you can also call me Mother Nature, and today's my first day of total exile.

Two weeks of solitude; a long time to spend all by myself with no one else around to see me strike against all that's unfair and cruel about this world. A very, very long time for me to be banned out of work, to be casted out of the theater for a very long intermission, when the film was still playing inside; to be banished away from all that really ever mattered. They do not know what it takes to run a household, a company, a society. They have no idea what it takes to run a country. It takes more than just guts to stand your ground. They've overlooked all of that and finger-pointed all of my sins. It's always easier to point out the scapegoat and have it slaughtered; that's how you get its attention. That's also how you make a name for yourself. I opened my eyes one morning and embraced all of their fingers, pointing me out, pulling me down. They knew that once they give you the finger, that's when you feel violated and panic. They think you'd fall down to your knees and confess, 'I did it. I'm guilty. Help me out of this misery. Hear me confess those crimes you've made me see.', but it ain't happening. They know that once somebody points you out as the source of world famine or as Hitler's fifth grade teacher, that you'd definitely run for cover. And that is exactly what I did. Life's taught me that revenge is a sweet, sweet feeling; the sweetest of them all. I know I should just sit back and rock away in my chair while I plan my history altering comeback, but I just can't take it anymore. I will go back out there, right now, and clear my name. I will show them and their fingers that they've been wrong. I will stand my ground the way a king should.

I'll call my lawyer and best friend and ask him to drive back and pick me up before he reaches the city gates. He was never a fast driver. He always abided by the speed limits, never bent any rules. Maybe that's why he's my best friend. Maybe that's why he's my lawyer and I'm not his.

The phone line is out. It's funny how you wish you could call in the telephone phone company and ask them to send someone over to fix it. It's at times like this when you wish you've learned smoke signals. Email might be the answer, but I've left my laptop back home. I thought it'd take me two weeks to figure my next move out, but it didn't. It took me an hour of self-realization to see it all. Maybe I'll just walk back to the city. Yeah, that should do it. I'll plan while I walk.

The door wouldn't open. For some reason, the metal key just wouldn't turn, my current wheel of fortune's replica. Oh well, I'll just lay back and watch some bad television. CNN, Jazeera, BBC News, a soap opera that's been playing for the past fifty years where the characters never leave the show; not unless their dead or getting trialed in Belgium. If I watch long enough maybe they'd report something about me and my current intermission situation. The might even report something about a non-rotating key epidemic. If only life was that fair.

Cable's out. I can't get any channels. All I'm getting is an out of signal message and the ever amusing black and white dots that some very sick people, myself included , seem to enjoy. Stare long enough at that and you might as well get a personal birthday card from outer space. Some people claim they've intercepted visions from God through similar sick manic depressive broadcasts.

'Bring me news of my political demise, o holy one'

I stared and I stared, assumingly, for a very long time. My wristwatch and all of the other surrounding clocks, of which I have so many, seem to have fixated at 4 pm. Time moves slower than ever when your cable's out.

I walked towards the locked door, closer and closer. The closer I got the more certain I was that it just wouldn't open. It wouldn't let me out. Not me. I deserve this exile, so I've been told by the black and white dots.

The key wouldn't turn.

'Turn you arrogant piece of steel. Let me out. I have a city to rule'.

It just wouldn't turn.

Some idiot said once that in order to find a dog you have to think like a dog, and since I wasn't in the process of finding any dogs, am out of cable, and locked in for the night as it seems, I might as well go fix something to quench this hunger I have inside, this lust for revenge, this appetite for power over all, this gluttony for a hotdog.

I walked towards the kitchen and I turn the light switch on, but it wouldn't work. It's getting dark now in this exile I've chosen to lure myself into. Self-rebellion is what it must be. My head hurts. I need to wake up.

The fridge is empty. All there is that is edible is a very stale loaf of bread and an ice tray that the maid figured she'd fill up, thinking I'd overlook all the food elements she's chosen to steal. I sure will have her fired, once I get the phone to work.

From a far distance, I can still see those holy black and white dots, staring at me, staring with a mighty grin that reads Victory. I guess television is not all that anymore.

The headache's killing me. Good thing I found some coffee, enough to fix me a couple java shots, but I choose to wait until I've eaten. A man in my position can not risk getting stomach erosions, not when he's got enough worries to create an ulcer at the center of the earth.

'So what will it be? Ice or stale bread? Hmm… that's a tricky one'.

If I have the bread toasted, maybe it wouldn't taste so bad, maybe the heat would kill all the bacteria. If I believe in heat, maybe I wouldn't die of food poisoning.

'Oh great toaster, I salute you', I said, before I bowed humbly to the toaster.

I took the stinky bread out of the plastic bag and turned the toaster on.

Not surprisingly, it wouldn't work either. The dual red lights were on, but it just wouldn't heat up.

The revolution of domestic appliances. Everything's rebelling against me. This so felt like home, where my country men just wouldn't get how much effort I put to their comfort. Nothing comes easy, not even toast. The toaster sat there quietly with a piece of bread inside its slot, sitting there all stinking and wet.

'Heat it up goddamn it. Fear Me.', I said with what seemed to be a baseball bat in my hand.

It just wouldn't stop staring with its furious red eyes, all lit up with absolute rage, the ever silent kind of rage. This is what revenge is all about.

'I envy you, o wicked toaster. You should have told me that I would in the manual'.

I went back to my key and stared at it for a minute, commanding it, ruling over. It just wouldn't turn. I must have lost it.

With nothing to do, with nothing planned, nothing seems more viable and publicly approved of than to rock away in my chair. And so alone, I sat there, rocking away this exile, wishing I could go back to the time I was 19 and reconsider joining the army. I should have stayed in med school. I should have joined band camp. Politics ain't easy, especially when your own world's been planning their revolution against you for the past twenty years. They say that revenge is a dish best served cold, and no matter what the substance is, observe it for twenty years and sieze the desired cool effect with your life. That's what the ice age was all about. Twenty long years; that's how long it takes for everything that really matters to die.

Alone, I sat there, rocking away, watching the non-ticking grandfather clock that I've failed to wind back to life, pretty similar to my career at politics, I suppose, even more similar to my social life now. It's still 4 o'clock. It's like the earth stopped spinning, my earth only. In my earth, everything stopped turning, the clock, the keys. My world stands still, observing, waiting for my next move, while I sit there, rocking away, silently raging, evidently plotting. I lit up my fruit flavored aroma cigar and I just raged. This is as close as I get to smoke signals. This is my crying out for help. I pour some wine in my glass. They say that gin is the answer to everything, or so I've been fooled into believing. The anger, the Godfather stare, the cigar, the political stand, the beautiful, shiny wine glass, all those fool no one anymore. This is as low as it gets. This is when you wish you were that leafless, very old tree standing quietly in the backyard, waiting forever for its angel of death.

I turned to Loran Speck's Onion and said, 'It's us against them, my tear leaking friend, like it's always been.' And since staring has been the only sane thing for me to do, I did. I stared at the Onion and through the Onion. Stared long enough to see my reflection in the glass protecting the Onion from dust and evil spirits; long enough to see how low I have become of a human being. It's not about money or fame and fortune anymore. I already have those. It's power that I'm addicted to. It's power that keeps me there, on my throne, fooling them all.

I'm fooling everybody. Is this really me? Just another politician? Another scam? Another Onion, perhaps? A vegetable that one can peel its layer off only to find another layer wrapping it there, another face to peel off. One layer after the other you peel, until you realize that there's nothing inside and all that remains is salty water running down your face, your fake vegetable face.

'This?! This can't be me.'

That man I see in the Onion's reflection, he's living my life to the fullest. He's selling out my every last bit of human decency. Right now, I am filled with the intent to be lost. I have managed to fool my very self.

I look closer through and that raging maniac moves closer to stare back at me with the same Victory grin living there in the painting, breathing my very same breath. I drop the wine glass and so it shatters on the floor. I look down to see that man again grinning in every shattered piece of what once was a wine glass and now is my eternal hell. This is what the drunken refer to as a moment of clarity.

'I tried to set an example for my people, for my children. I've lost track of things', I say as I kneel down on my knees to stare back at the shattered community I have managed to create. 'I've lost track of myself'.

I look around to see my furniture watching me in hatred, blaming me for the things that I've done. Blaming me for killing the cowboy that my son believed he had for a father.

'I've tried'.

Now I know the reason behind me buying this country house. This is where the fog clears away. This exile is where the chains break loose.

'I can still fix it. I can be a better man.', I cried to the furniture. Begging for it to look away. That's when the black and white dots transformed into what's been commonly known as CNN, breaking the news of my money laundering schemes, and my evil world domination plans. If this was a movie, I'd ask for a refund for the ticket, but I can't. This is as real as it gets.

I'd bet the toaster's good and running now.

I got up in tears and scanned that Onion one last time.

'Oh I hate you.'

I threw my cigar on the Arabian carpet and watched it bring flames into my oblivion. It's a slow way to end it all. It's a spineless way to make it alright.

I crawled into my bedroom and opened my top drawer, liberating my potential savior, the Jesus of the masses. I got up to perform my final stare at myself. Into the mirror I stared as I pointed the gun to my head.

'Dear God, forgive me.'

I pulled the trigger, then the mirror got painted with beautiful shades of red, my favorite color.

The sole comfort in my death is knowing that my son will live in a world that got a little better with my demise.

I was a cowboy once, then I met my angels of death in the forms of domestic appliances. Things that I owned. Objects that I've ruled. I'll die now knowing that the key's probably turning, now that I can't get to it. I can hear the clocks ticking again, striking another number, marking my final hour. The hour where everything switches back to normal mode.

Alone, I lied on my back, facing my sins getting washed away by the blood stains on the mirror, grinning at me in Victory amidst beautiful shades from the past.

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи on Monday, July 17, 2006 at 9:07 AM | Permalink