Short fiction

I'm the Ocean

I closed my eyes, waiting for something to happen, to change this joke of a life that feels like a routine, a stupid collection of inhalation/exhalation cycles, antiperspirants, antidisestablishmentarianism pamphlets and organic foods.  The routine is here and, wow, it's a bitch.

    Where are you?

    You just left a reunion, the usual Saturday night dirge that passes as a get-together with your “friends”. The sort you don't enjoy any more as you feel your assistance or absence wouldn't change a thing.

    You just left a pal at his house. He waves goodbye, with his glasses partially getting cloudy with condensation due to the temperature difference.

    “Now you take care” is the lukewarm sentence he uses in lieu of a “goodbye”. Maybe he knows? He's always been an intelligent geezer. But also, he worries too much. I just give an “a-ok” sign with my right hand. If I do it with my left, he would be insulted. Cultural differences. Feels like walking on eggshells.

    Any ways, no one else in the car. Pedal to the metal.

    First gear. You look for a song that defines the moment. A feel good song. Anything nice, doesn't have to be too deep or with some high degree of technical skill.

    Hey, Foo Fighters. That's the bunny. That'll do.

    You step on it, hoping you haven't tattooed rubber on the pavement, but the lack of any screeching means you are off, scott-free.

    Your house is only five minutes away. Nonetheless, you take the scenic route. Off to drive to Never Never Land.

    Whatever you need to clear your head, no?

    The slope is against you, but it's alright, the car can take it. Much more than what your heart would.

    C'mon, you devil, you 7 mpg beast. They will know us by the trail of CO2.

    You pass the hospital where they treated you for that broken rib. You remember that time perfectly, don't you? You hate that time, right? You loathe the person you were dating back then, who now is going to get married to an extraordinarily stupid person. A spiteful little liar personifying “falsehood”. Liars, beware. The day of Reckoning will come. The nuns said so.

    Shit. The penguins. Fuckers. All of them.

    You just ran through a red light. Will the cops care?

    No, they are too busy eating.

    Goo Goo Dolls distracts you. Too loud, too rocking and that time is so far away. Now they are “soft rock” or “adult contemporary”. Damn Nicolas Cage and everything he represents.

    You drive by the hamburger stand where you had a great conversation with someone who eventually dropped you for a better game.

    Still, you are good friends. C'est la vie.

    You keep driving, never stopping in that slight downhill bit. Are you gaining momentum for the climb to Lomas Verdes?

    You are!

    Now you just passed house number 88, that horribly painted house with orange and ochre hues, with  the numbers in powder blue.

    He seemed to be a friend. A friend for all life. Met the dude in '92, seemed to be cool.

What was his name?

    He was a good friend for two semesters. Then he sold out to “The Man”. You were too uncool for him. “I can't have too many nerdy friends”. He asked me to change. The bloody gall. 

    He changed. You changed. We all change. We exchange friendships for partnerships. We exchange ideals for easy payment schemes for a car. Love becomes routine. Passion becomes routine. Your life becomes a series of rituals, just hoops to jump through.

    The light goes off.

    What was his name, though?

    You met him again a few years later at the fairground in Chapultepec. He was in line for the roller-coaster with his new girlfriend. The one he met because she was in the same class as Gonzo's girlfriend, Vanessa.

    Vanessa was strange. Cute but quirky. Maybe too much. Not that it ever stopped you from...

    Oh, this curve is tricky slow down. Ah, deft as always. Ten stars, my man.

    Where were we? Ah, your fake ass friend. Yes, you saw him at Chapultepec and he was distant. You also saw him at some bullshit employment fair, talked for a few moments and SHIT ALMIGHTY, CONCENTRATE ON THE ROAD!

    Phew, that was close.

    Yes, you met again after many years, both looking worn and torn. Exchanged numbers or emails or anything. He did keep in touch, right? Right.

    Friendships. Life has a sordid sense of humour. Can't help feeling the joke's getting way too old.

    Third gear. Thanks for changing. Can't stand the sound of a car's motor being forced. You always have problems with this hill. Shift to second gear, give some love to the gas pedal, then reconcile with third. Easy, wasn't it? There, not even Jezza could outdo you. 

A few bumps, the rattling of the suspension. Yes, you are in La Concordia. You can see the whole city from here. That orange, starry desolation without a name. That pot boiling with corruption and, ah, well, enough noir-speak, yeah?

    La Concordia. That zone where people complain about trash containers. Where they don't want that small hill they run to every Saturday after a drink binge on a Friday night to become a shopping mall.

    Even worse, they'll go and get some quesadillas or tacos after the “rigorous exercise”.

Idiots. They exercise ONE day per week. If they had that mall, they'd probably get a better cardio workout, balancing the bags and walking up and down while their booger-eating kids whine.

    You want to have great muscles? Go on a shopping spree.

    You wanna lose weight? Go on a shopping spree.

    The anxieties will make you feel guilty about fatty food. You'll buy your way into thinness in no time.

    And if not, you'll be stone broke poor. So no expensive fat food.

    Malls. You win, they win, Mexico wins.

    What, you don't like malls?

    Fuckin' Godless commie. Get out of the car.

    No, wait, you are driving.

    You are the ocean.

    And that's right, you need to use the motor to brake on this hill. Yes, slowly but surely, clutch and gears, yes, you get the hang of it.

    Remember the last time you were around here? Sure you do, that's why you didn't turn on the lights before turning into that snake-like road that leads to perdition. To the cursed hills.

    You drive towards the reservoir.

    “Not for me”. You said that.

    “Cry, but not for me”.

    You said that.

    ...if anybody deserves to die...

    You skip on Lisa Loeb.

    What, you don't like 'Firecracker' any more?

    Too soon?

    Ah, Therapy?! Now you are talking. The TRUE rockers from Ireland.

    You step on it, pedal to the metal, gases to the masses, pollution is your solution.

    The road over the reservoir. It's quite a drop from the other side.

    Wonder if?  Ah, shame. You didn't go for it. It would've been the way to go.

    Do you remember that time you drove across pretty much all of Mexico City for that stupid pretentious party? The one you had to go all trendy-Wendy to. How much was that paisley shirt? Is it still feeding moths in the closet?

    Rejection is worse than hate. Indifference is worse than spite.

    Do you remember that picture and how you dropped it into the cold, dark water, the reflection of the moon over the reservoir's calm face, disrupted by your folly of anger?

Then you drove for a hamburger. The double one with bacon, pineapple and no chilli.

You keep driving on that winding road, swerving, missing all those stupid drivers that do have a reason to breathe. Families. Kids. Mortgages. A Labrador with a pedigree.

Speed: 140 (let's keep it decimal, shall we?).

    Music: Deftones.

    Song: Rickets.

    “You are probably right, but right now I just don't want to listen”.

    Your singing voice: Shit. Don't quit your day job.

    Mood: Desperation.

    And the more you step on it and fly around the area that once seemed idyllic, you realize it won't happen. The car and you are moving, but The Tears of The Other will haunt you every day, every minute.

    “You can run, but you can't hide”.

    Oh, you are mentally mixing Phil Collins with Chino Moreno?

    Smooth. Really smooth.

    “Because you are like the ocean”.

    Now Santana? What are you? Why do you react in such a Pavlovian way to what I say?

200. In that downhill slope where Starbucks, Blockbuster and Superama have their nest. Capitalist motherfuckers damning us all.

    That chemistry teacher that lived around here. The Sickness made her retire early. So much potential. So much. Now, she's gone. Like our hopes and dreams, the ones we built our lives around as children. Hey, remember when we asked the main nun, that horrible golem-like spinster-face about Joseph and why he's pretty much written off in the Bible?     Yes? Is this ringing any bells?

    Oh, well, back to that chemistry teacher. She was cool. Yeah.

    D'you remember her neighbour, the one who was more than a friend? What was her name? Daphne? Delia? Darcy?

    And the surprise in store? Oh, yeah, she was quite a spot of raspberry jam on your spotless shirt. The one everyone warned you about, but you foolishly soldiered on to save. You couldn't. You can't even save yourself. And now, you drive, every night, as fast as you can. What makes you go so fast? Is it the petrol, the gravity of this quite steep hill or survivor's guilt?

    220. The good thing about this car is that it doesn't have any electronics mumbo jumbo to control speed. Acceleration will be there as long as you keep your soles parallel to the road.

    Keep running, fool. Memories will always catch up with you.

    Handbrake. Whoa.

    How come we don't flip over?

    You know how to drive! The Stig ain't got shit on you.

    The smoke and the smell linger in the night, even when you've driven off from that spot where a big chunk of all tyres are smeared like lipstick.

    You don't slouch, you are doing 200 again.

    To that house.

    The house of that infamous party so many eons ago.

    You saw the door. The One, leaving without a warning.

    The One, never wanting to know about you any more.

    The One, an idealised version of love no person you meet has the chance to become.

    You will never give them a shot.

    You are in that State of Decay, where your mind and your heart have planned never to let anyone near, unless it's that one who you slowly are realising does not exist. 

    And that's why you drive so fast.

    Yes?

    Answer me, you fuck.

    These past Saturdays, you are all laughs and jokes. You are the life of the party, you are the star. Everyone thinks you'll be big in life, you are just biding your time.

    And after the reunions, you just drive around, wandering. Aimlessly. Do you wait for a thief to shoot you down in the night? Do you wait for the fickle finger of fate and pray for an accident to happen? You remember what your friend told you about Nick Drake, how he drove around aimlessly for a time, before he committed suicide? Copycat much?

    “Collision, is my mission”

    Is that why you laugh like crazy, howling at the moon, driving every time faster, every time braking a little slower?

    Faith No More gave way to Red House Painters who gave way to Neil Young. Nice music mix you got there, fella, care to make me a copy? A procession of forgotten musicians. You are not hip, you are not “with it”.

    You smiled when Grampa Simpson said: “And it will happen to you”.

    Surprise! It has happened.

    You are over the hill.

    In life. That's why you are using that momentum, praying for that car crash.

    Accident/suicide.

    Neil Young and Pearl Jam. Who could've thought?

    You go into that avenue.

    The avenue that signifies freedom. The equivalent of a long strip where all traffic lights are synchronized and you can do some heavy stuff. Maybe one day you'll do drifting.

So many people have died there. The government doesn't care. The council even less.

They've got a sweet deal with the company that installs the lampposts.

    It's the circle of life. The best thing in your life is to kill yourself crashing into a lamppost.

    It's not a suicide, you are reactivating the economy.

    Ah, but this avenue, man, this avenue.

    Lemurs, man, LEMURS!

    This avenue has everything. It joins two municipalities. It gets you to the houses of your best friends. It has dips, it has holes, it has accidents, it has stupid drivers, it has catholic schools with corrupt nuns.

    It still has the remains of a newspaper stand you burnt.

    It has blood, pain, happiness and smiles.

    You are on a very decent range of speed.

    Is it 120?

    You nod.

    You shout “I'm the ocean!”.

    You are a Windstar. You are a Cutlass Supreme. You are a drug. You are a talk show.

    You slow down near an infamous speed bump. You don't want your car to get disfigured, like one of your friends, who scraped the bottom on that very same bump.

    Bad father, he was one. Belt pelting and all.

    What did you just mutter?

    Never mind. Coward. “I'm the ocean”. The song about the generational gap. Neil Young wrote it after driving in Los Angeles in a rented car, while the O.J. Simpson murder trial (a subsidiary of Barnum Bros. Inc) was on its most successful run.

    You keep accelerating and in one curve, while your tyres screech for dear life, everything becomes clear. Just as the song changes. Three chords, in your head, a simple progression. You know it. We played it together. It was your idea for a song. I like it.

    You can run and get away from everyone, but you'll never escape from yourself.

    “Sabes que todo principio tiene un final, y te ves al ocaso acelerar”.

    “Every beginning has an end and towards it you are running”.

    “Yo sé que ustedes no entenderán, pero nunca me preocupó el que dirán”

    “You know they won't understand, but you never cared of what some might say”.

    You slow down. You stop at a taco stand a few minutes later, in the Santa Monica Square.

    Flashy people in flashy cars. People having fun. People drunk on life, living life, loving, kissing, goosing, exhaling, inhaling.

    You've been writing this.

    You keep writing and writing. You listen to people in other tables making fun of you, writing on a Saturday night.

    No, it's not 10:15, but there is a tap nearby. Drip drip drip drip drip.

    Perfection is being imperfect.

    Happiness is ignoring sadness.

    You celebrate the fact this wasn't just another Saturday.

    On this Saturday, so close to death, you were happy.

    You pay, leave a tip and jump into your steed.

    Once again into the breach, my friend.

    Once again into the avenue. The breached one.

    Once again, even if it's for seven minutes, in communion with the voice of Neil Young, you feel alive and adore every moment of it.

    Then you stopped. The song finished. You stopped.

    No warning? MANNERS. Please.

    Then you asked me: “Who are you?”

    And I answered you: “I'm the voice you pretend you don't hear. I'm the advice you never follow. I'm the fountain of knowledge which you piss into instead of drinking from”.

    And then you smiled.

    What would you call a conversation with the being you despise the most? After sex talk.  Yeah. You still got it.

Samuel Valdes Lopez