Roger started rapping at me when I came through the door on Thursday and knowing why, I smiled. It was a panegyric measure from a respected friend and rival in the Rock n Roll High School art department. A moment later, alone at the top, I ruminated on my small success, watching Roger on the way out. (There is no intentional metaphor in that, but your inference is as good as mine.)
"There's a present on your desk," he said shuffling down to the street.
My first instinct is that I'm the proud new owner of Bulleit Bourbon, but my second instinct is stronger and I know I'm not. It isn't that Raj couldn't afford to do that -- not that he can either -- but that I haven't earned that yet.
We've got a running bet that whoever strikes a major item from the Big To-Do List will receive a bottle of the good stuff as their reward. In the world of merited whiskey gifts, my accomplishment ranked somewhere around Ancient Age or Heaven Hill and therefore, I was hoping he'd found a different way to convey his pride in me.
And there it is, "Practical Demonkeeping" by Christopher Moore, who happens to be among my very favorite writers. Inscribed inside: "Congratulations on your cover story! R.R. D.J. M.R.C. PS - Be careful with this one. It's a signed copy. Roger Riddle." That being the joke of the week since I caught him thumbing through the only signed first edition book in my collection.
On the cover, 'Demon' has been X'd out, replaced by 'Chris'. I can feel the dig. It's no secret that I've been absent from the social scene, the gold dust of our epicurean adventures now just nostalgic grain left clinging to my empty hands.
And it's there again when I check the infamous Top Ten on his myspace page. The back-handed compliment of being #1 on the short list of good things with the question, "Could this mark the return of our favorite missing in action beer drinker?"
The question is awkward to me for more than just the way it was worded. It implies on one level that I'm missed and worse, that I'm missed because I've abandoned. I could go into an excuse, but I'll just pray that a heartfelt "My bad" will suffice until you all get to berate me in person.
Yes, it was nice having made the cover of our bi-monthly alterative paper and more so, being considered "special to the Eleventh Hour" in the process, but there's more to this week that than honor alone. To me, what's been best is that HAVING to write that thing by deadline forced recently latent words itch for release from my fingers. It took three days before I could even get myself to face the chore then three more to make it halfway decent, still hacking and chopping a half hour before it was due.
Since then, I've kept a beehive in my bonnet.
In the past week, I became the owner of 22 books and then a hostage inside my literary smithie, working on a new short story. I even called a meeting of the Writers and Exciters but only one showed besides me. My powers haven't fully returned.
Yet.
Work will not have as strong a hold of me, I've decided. For the past few weeks, though I let the 7am start time keep me inside and far away. On the couple of nights off, I've spent it cuddling and smiling. Everything is finding its balance for me so when the phoenix finally gets out of his recliner triumphant, it'll burn brighter than before.
Again.
During the same spending spree that necessitated the addition of a new wing at the Horne Memorial Library, I managed to find some reciprocial vinyl for my goad-ready homeboy. I scribbled a note to lay atop the pile: "Congratulations on being my roommate! C.U.E.H. PS - Be careful. These are scratched copies."
And last night, I rode with dear old Sugar Booger - my dear sweet girlfriend - to the First Annual Fall Party. We ate BBQ pig, stood around the fire and invoked the spirit of haint hunting in the upstairs corridors of our hosts' home. At separate times, in separate places, Hank Vegas and I talked of Richard Ford. Luminaries of the Middle Georgia Bohemian Scene sauntered and staggered - each according to their stupidity, to each according to their inebriation. Yet Roger and the Cool Kids had yet to arrive. Hm.
Citizen Evans issued a call for a beer run and being sober, I volunteered. Upon our return and the replenishing of ice and brew to the displaced bath tub in the yard, I spotted Jewel Daddy and Big Al. They gave me shit and I took it for the chance to know their conversation again. Oh Community Capital C! I felt complete when Mad Cash made a dash to the little girls room when I recounted the many supernatural horrors we've witnessed at the Center for Revolutionary Studies. Apparently, it only takes invoking the name of "Ernest" to startle the cousin of Kravitz.
When it was time to go, I did not protest and I did not complain. Work would wait for the morning because I could still feel the cool, clean saturation of having dipped my toes back in the social scene.
The theme of Practical Demonkeeping -- and dare I say, one that runs through the entire Moore oeuvre -- is that everything works out after Rock Bottom. Fortunately, there's a cot down there with my name on it and it's always made sure that when I hit it, I get to sleep for a while before the return ascent. Better still: the landing is never as bad as it could be because of that thin padding.
A good friend-in-progress warned me that my particular employer has a mystical ability to stymie creative juices. I heeded that as best I could, still confident that I'd be fine, that all I needed was a steady paycheck and a decent schedule. Today, I know more of what she spoke. Like I've done several times before with the advice my parents have given me, I've looked back and thought, "Hm, that's what that meant."
It's depressing there. I'm cubicled off and drowning in flourscent light, tethered to the ever-needy client base by a thin wire headset that seems directly plugged into my brain. The voices never stop and there, it means I'm perfectly sane. A dozen acronyms rule by behavior and performance, each sizing me up for a number that dictates my advancement.
But I'm not quitting and shan't because that'd be selfish. Chris Horne needed another challenge and here it is: To make a life like the world around me without sacrificing or surrendering what I believe makes me whole.
Watch your asses because I'm coming back out and this weekend, I'll be in costume. Happy Halloween, mutherfuckahs, Happy Halloween.
Or...
... as Sugar Booger once said, "Tonight, I could read French Philosophy or make chili. I think I'll go to bed."
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