Anatomy of an Excuse
By Keiti | September 25, 2007
Since my brain is pretty much fried today, and the only thing I can think of to write about are the TV shows I’ll be watching this evening (Bones [maybe] and House - I love Hugh Laurie) I’ll leave you with a short, short story entitled Anatomy of an Excuse.
I wrote it during the tale-end of my time in Los Angeles - when I was utterly frustrated with Rock Star and completely disgusted with myself. I’ve thought about fleshing it out a bit, but after much contemplation, I like the incompleteness of it.
So…enjoy.
Anatomy of an Excuse
I am always in control.
I think about that as I test the strength of the silk scarves that bind me to the Queen Anne chair my parents gave me for Christmas.
My scarves. My chair.
As incensed as I am, I find it perceptive of you to reinforce my current status by using what is mine to keep me in check. It’s a nice touch; control may be my weapon of choice, but I’m not so self-absorbed that I can’t appreciate the subtleties of someone else’s. That you pay close attention to detail is obvious; bound and struggling I wonder why I hadn’t noticed it before.
This particular brand of insanity started last night. It was late. I’d come home at an hour when any normal person would have long since been tucked away in bed. I sat in this very chair, drawn up next to the open patio door, watching smoke from my cigarette curl up into the darkness, the glowing ember the only light for miles - a feat in and of itself in a city filled with lights as far as the eye can see - waiting for you to drag yourself through the door.You hate when I smoke in the apartment.
“It makes the place stink,” you say. I do it anyway. Because I can. You can’t control me. You didn’t control me. I’d always had the upper hand.
Until now.
The dark circles beneath my eyes belied my insomnia, so I didn’t bother wasting my breath on anything except that damn cigarette. Each time exhaustion threatened to overtake me, I’d see your face hovering like a specter, bitching at me for being a smart ass to Famous Writer. I asked why you thought he should be treated any differently than anyone else. After all, being a smart ass is the trademark of my control, with you or anyone else I encounter.
“I am who I am,” I stated. “I think Famous Writer would understand.”
You peered at me over the top of your glasses. Sighed. Walked upstairs, knowing full well I hate it when you ignore me.
All of this over one of small talk’s best questions: what I did for a living - a simple inquiry with an even simpler answer. Truth be told, I would have been more inclined to admit to being a hooker than the administrative assistant I actually am. While being an office bitch isn’t the most humiliating job, I’d still rather jab myself in the eye with a sharp stick than admit my true occupation to a man who does for a living the very thing I’d give my right arm for.
It wasn’t your admonishment that kept me from the netherworld of dreams, but rather the realization that nothing had changed since our first meeting six years ago. I was driving back to the apartment with you in tow when the awareness of that fact came to me in the form of our song playing on the radio. You don’t know it’s our song, of course, because I’ve never mentioned it. It’s always been my little secret - something to smile about whenever I was wading knee-deep in the proverbial bullshit. Seems like I’m always hanging by a moment where you’re concerned - no matter how much headway I think I’m making, it’s always back to go, still dancing that shit-ass tango as if there’s nothing better to do. Crypticism leads straight to a big, old mind fuck, and I wonder about your little secret - you know, the one you hide behind, never being able to bring yourself to take what is freely offered.
I try not to take it personally. I get along rather nicely thinking that you’re merely dim-witted the way most guys can be, in spite of the bluntness that tumbles from my mouth whenever my guard is down. No calculation there, just plain, old frustration along for the ride of a lifetime. So, dim-witted I chose to believe; you simply didn’t get it and no amount of straight talk was going to change that.
Obviously…
…until I found myself strapped and struggling to this fucking chair. Time to regroup and rethink. I hadn’t known about your own penchant for control until you stole mine. Ain’t that some shit to chew on?
(Deep breath.)
You came creeping out of the darkness, specter be damned. If my reflexes hadn’t been so slow I would have bolted from the chair. But I was exhausted and happy to see you. I couldn’t help myself. The anger only comes when questions outweigh the answers, and my mind tries to wrap itself around the anatomy of an excuse; easily enough dissolved the minute I see your face.
© 2007 Misplaced Misfit
Topics: Rock Star |
September 30th, 2007 at 9:44 pm
Richly pigmented oils manipulated by masters as are your words here.