Fiction

Marvin Gaye said this ain't livin', and I tend to agree. This is more like Heaven. When I was fourteen I broke my clavicle -- freakishly -- on the Dizzy Lizzy at Six Flags New Orleans, and on top of the thirty-three-thousand-dollar settlement I received (which, God bless America, helped pay for a considerable chunk of my college tuition) I was granted free admission to the park, myself and up to two acquaintances, for the remainder of my adult life. I used to think, for a time, until Katrina put a kibosh on that deal, that I would achieve no greater pinnacle of success in life. Turned out I was wrong.

I suppose I have simple desires. I've never seen much allure in driving the most extravagant car or living in the nicest house in the poshest neighborhood. I live in a one-room apartment, and my preferred modes of transportation are my Chuck Taylors, a transit pass, and, occasionally, when I get the urge to shake the urban cobwebs from my head and see the countryside glide past in panoramic sublimity, the mighty iron horse to the coast. My carnal desires are a tad more pronounced, but in this day and age they're relatively subtle, I would venture. I watch porn on the Internet almost daily, and I enjoy watching men come on the faces of good-looking women, but that's about as far as my lasciviousness -- if you can call it that -- stretches.

I do have a few vices, but, again, they're nothing out of the ordinary. I often enjoy a beer or ten, maybe some bourbon, and, like my porn watching, I'm sure I indulge more than the average Joe in terms of frequency and quantity, but you have to admit that, in a society where rape, murder, sex with animals, and child molestation are rife, my flaws are pretty tame, victimless. Hedonism is not and should not be a crime. If it doesn't include criminal activities, I mean, and mine doesn't.

But now I feel like it might appear I'm making excuses, fooling myself. Trust me, it's not that. How could it be? My slate is wiped clean, and nary a peep has come from my conscience in as long as I can remember. I've sinned (who hasn't?), but any transgressions I've made are long forgotten. Because they were never that big to begin with, probably. A couple nights ago I woke up in a cold sweat, terrified that the Polaroid I took of my penis with my brother's camera when I was ten, the Polaroid I stashed in my bedroom air vent, was discovered. Then I took a piss and realized I don't care. If that's the most long-lasting, haunting fear my subconscious can come up with, I should thank my lucky stars. After all, what kind of scandal can a photo of my ten-year-old, prepubescent dick elicit?

This life is good, boy. It's not all fun and games, of course, and there is work to be done, but it's more like work with quotation marks or work written in italics.

"Work." Work. Yeah, that's about right.

When I'm asked what I do for a living -- and this question comes up more times than I'm comfortable with, in all honesty --, I say I'm a painter. When pressed to divulge what, exactly, I paint, I say, "Mostly ironic paintings, like say a telephone answering a person," then I'll draw a crude sketch. Look, there is a big black phone receiver holding a small writhing man in a suit! they inwardly exclaim, eyes flashing. What a sharp comment of our society! Then they ask me to sign the sketch. Because it'll be worth something some day. Joke's on me, it probably will be.

When I'm not telling baldfaced lies, I'm always romanticizing what I do. I find such duplicity mutually beneficial. If, for example, I tell you I'm the love child and ostracized heir to an Eastern European royal family, I get to sleep with you (ideally, usually) in exchange for you being able to tell your friends you hooked up with the would-be crown prince to the Latvian dynasty. If I tell you I'm a writer who is published worldwide instead of saying, honestly, that I write regularly for an Internet blog that few people read, well, that's fine, too, isn't it? Because there are lies, and then there are polished truths.

Sometimes I get a little manic, depending on my mood. Haha. Other times, I'm the worst person in the world to live with. I've smelled my own farts, so I know. I can certainly empathize. Compulsion, the need to scratch that itch: it can be a person's biggest strength or their most prodigious weakness. Or both. Usually both.

My time is short, I know. Windows. But look at this one! It's big, and if my eyes aren't betraying me I think I see something in the background. A man with suspenders! Yes, I see it, too. A faded blue shirt, pant legs rolled up to discourage grass stains, encourage mosquito bites. He's smiling, and he has a short beard. Reddish, like van Gogh's. It's hot, but he doesn't care much about that. Because he's going home to his pipe and his family. Two kids, one six the other four. Boys.

Heaven.