Not so much a memory, just a feeling.
A humid, unsuspecting summer.
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I roll to a stop at a red light. Front row at a large intersection, I take survey of the layout. On the opposite side of the street is a very rotund woman on a Rascal scooter approaching the intersection. She’s holding an umbrella, struggling with an impressively large purse. It's been raining and she looks soaked.
As she reaches the edge of the sidewalk and enters the crosswalk, the scooter appears to die. I sit up, alerted. For a second, I contemplate the logistics of getting out of my car to help her. Given the rain and the four lanes of traffic, it’s far too dangerous for me to attempt a rescue. Sorry, lady.
Watching this helpless person on a Rascal, stranded in the crosswalk, I feel like an asshole. Cars sailing by, I'm stressed, but strangely, she doesn’t look alarmed by the situation, just irritated. After a few seconds of just sitting there, she just … stands up. She walks to the front of her steed, grabs the handlebars and deftly pushes it back onto the sidewalk, no trouble at all.
She rolls her vehicle to a stop on the sidewalk. Digging through her purse, she produces a cigarette which she fumbles to light, while still holding the umbrella. Finally figuring it out, she sits back down, sidesaddle. She sort of crosses her legs, takes a look around and pulls a heroic drag from the cigarette.
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We wake early and shake the sleep out with some coffee and a quiet soundtrack of Santo & Johnny. I benedict a few eggs before we climb in the whip and speed towards the coast.
The weather looks to be shitty, so the roads are clear. In no time at all, we’re walking across a beach. The clouds break. We trade our jackets for hoodies and sunglasses and hop back in the car in search of adventure.
No set destination, we meander into Washington. After passing through several small (and mildly creepy) coastal towns, we find ourselves entering Cape Disappointment.
Having no knowledge of this place, and being intrigued by the name, we both decide we need to explore a bit.
Flash forward, we’re making our way across some bluffs under a clear, sun-filled sky. She walks ahead a little bit. As we turn the bend, an abandoned lighthouse reveals itself in the distance.
She spins on her heel, turning towards me. The genuine look of excitement in her eyes is heartwarming, refreshing. Her emotions seem unadulterated, void of callouses, no signs of scarring. There's a certain naivety to it, but more than that, I realize just how despondent I've been: In this moment, her smile, that sunshine, I feel like my heart could explode, something I haven't felt in ages. It’s all a bit overwhelming, really.
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I wake up. It's barely light out. Cold. It takes a second for me to process things, but I'm in my car. It smells absolutely awful. I'm woozy and have the acidic aftertaste of vomit in my mouth. I turn on the cabin light and do a quick audit: wallet, keys, phone -- all there. Timecheck: 6:30 am.
Opening the car door, I stumble out to stretch my abnormally sore legs. It's only then that I notice the vomit on my left shoe. Leaning over to inspect my kicks, I almost fall over. I steady myself, becoming more aware that my left shin is jolting with a dull pain. I pull up my pant leg, revealing a bloody gash. Nothing to be alarmed about, yet puzzling, nonetheless.
Standing in an alcove, I piss on a brick building. The headache is apparent. It's all starting to come back to me.
We'd all planned on meeting up before the Death Grips show at Ground Kontrol for some pinball and booze, but they were at capacity. After standing around in the rain for a while, we hop into the closest bar we could find. A block away, we discover the mostly-empty "Casey's." We drink whiskey (2) and talk as the crowd started filling in. After an hour or so, the place is packed. We look around and conclude, yep, this is a gay bar. The club lights and europop should have given it away. Still, we were stoked to have a dry place to sit, so we stuck around. The rest of the crew arrives, we continue drinking.
I order another shot and ask to close my tab. He returns with my check and two shots. The second one was on him. Aside from my birthday, it's my first free shot. I'm flattered. We finish off our drinks (4) and depart for the venue, which is right next door.
Due to the fact that the show was sold out and the venue's will-call system was fucked, we end up standing in the rain for ages. Bummer. Finally making it into the venue, wet and drunk, we immediately continue drinking (6) in preparation for what would be one of the most intense performances I've ever seen. Fierce, fierce, fierce.
After the show, one half of our group splits, the remainder of us heading to a bar to meet up with another group of people. Arriving, I go against my better judgement and immediately start drinking more whiskey (7). We all try to carry on a conversation over the music, but it's entirely too loud.
Just as I'm getting another drink poured (8), I see that one of the (particularly fine) women in the group is heading towards the door. She had mentioned, minutes earlier, that she real wanted to go dancing. Without hesitation, I finish my drink and run towards the door. Catching up to her a block or two away, I ask if she's really going dancing. She is. I ask if I can come. She says yes and locks arms with me, and we stumble into the soggy Portland night.
I remember showing my ID to the guy at the door. I remember shooting tequila shots (9). I remember dancing. My ass off. I remember more tequila (10). I remember a fog machine. I remember "Never Scared" by Bone Crusher. I remember grinding. I remember getting low. I remember sweaty, drunken kisses. I remember taking a shot of vodka (11) in the bathroom with a group of guys I'd never met. I remember photobooth flashes.
After that, nothing. I have no recollection of leaving the club, vomiting, walking to my car (and presumably falling down in the process).
Back in the alcove, I finish my business and get back in my car. Head still splitting, I sigh, cracking a smile. Despite the alarming amount of booze consumed and the numerous bad decisions (seriously, shots with strangers in the bathroom…), I was still alive. Caution to the wind, eh?
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Growing up next to giant swaths of uninhabitted wilderness, my father and I are skilled marksmen when it comes to target practice. As a christmas gift to him, I procured a few pounds of Tannerite. Tannerite is a binary explosive formed by mixing two powders together with a catalyst. In it’s volatile form, it will only explode when struck by a high velocity impact, like that of a bullet.
Christmas day, we find ourselves on a deserted logging road taking shots at a 1lb. mixture. We’re using my grandpa’s old rifle, which we’re not used to, so it’s taking much longer to hit the target. Embarrassing.
Finally, my father hits it, which results in an astonishing boom, flash and giant cloud of smoke. I feel the impact of the shock wave in my chest. Visceral.
We look at each other in shock. We expected a little bang, but nothing near that magnitude. Both removing our earplugs, our astonishment turns to laughter. I’ve never seen my father so happy. Truly.
Sidenote: I’m absolutely amazed you can purchase this stuff via the internet with little more than a credit card. Powerful stuff. Fuck yeah, freedom!
-----
Her death-cold hands find their way into my pocket.
"Brr"
"Poor circulation"
"You just use me for my warmth"
"It's mutually beneficial"
"What do I get out of it?"
"My hands in your pockets"
and a kiss on the temple.
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New Years Eve, 2012.
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Sitting on his front porch, my closest friend sobs out the details of a drunken tryst between himself and my ex-fiance. He drunkenly pours his heart out while I listen in disbelief. We talk for a little bit, but I don’t remember much of what I said, I just remember the intense urge to exit the situation as soon as humanly possible. He just keeps apologizing. Finally, we hug and I drive off into the night, still utterly stunned. Blindsided. Yeah. That’s a better word for it.
Since that night, I’ve stayed away from him. I’m not mad, I just don't want to deal with him. He’s built up enough credit that this won’t destroy our friendship, but it certainly changes things. I'm not entirely sure this is one of those make-the-friendship-stronger-through-strife type situations.
I contemplated contacting her. This behavior seems fundamentally contradictory to what I thought to be the fabric of her being — so much so that I am concerned. I opted against it -- not my place.
It's complicated. It's embarrassing. It's disappointing. I don't really know how to handle it.
What a mess.
-----
Having been such a lecherous asshole the weekend prior, I called her up and invited her to my company's christmas celebration. I needed a classy date, plus, I wanted to show her that I could be a gentleman. Really, though, my motivations were a bit more swarthy: this woman is foxy, I'd be looking sharp as fuck and I'd be surrounded by a large number of fantastic people. How could she resist?
Driving to pick her up, a mild feeling of panic sets in. I hadn't really thought this through. What if I've overestimated her? What if she's horribly awkward? What if she's miserable? What if she's bored?
She looks absolutely amazing. My concerns are gradually quelled as she handles a barrage of new faces without breaking a sweat. Charming, even.
Fast-forward through some stiff cocktails / dinner. Suddenly: karaoke, and she's holding the mic, belting out a song to a room full of my peers. Maybe it was the booze, or the rad lazer-light backdrop, but it hits me hard: This is an impressive woman.
Thusly, I grab the second mic, hop on stage and help her finish the last chorus.
-----
At the apex of my hair experiment, I was making the all-too-familiar trip to Southern Oregon. I stop at a tiny gas station in the middle of nowhere. I use the restroom and get something to drink. Approaching the counter, I see the attendant — a short, wrinkled old lady — giving me the eye.
I smile politely, setting the drink on the counter.
“Well, don’t you look suspicious...” she says.
Caught off guard, I laugh. “Oh, yeah, I guess it is getting pretty out of hand” I say, motioning to my Jesus-motif hair setup.
“You look like a wild man.”
“Hey, the ladies seem to love it,” I say jokingly.
“And what sort of ladies would those be?” She asks.
“The wild ones, of course” I retort.
“Where are you from?” She bluntly asks.
“Portland,” I respond.
“Ah, those kinds of ladies,” she smirks.
“And what sort of ladies would those be?” I ask, sarcastically.
“Hippie lesbians!” She says, producing a deep, smokey cackle.
Well played, lady.
-----
Sometimes, we change for the worse.
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Yet again, I’m drunk at a dance club. It’s “Bollywood Nights” and we’re surrounded by well-dressed, young-professional-looking indians who are fucking druuuunk. The DJs is slaying it. The strobe lights and projections are face-melting. I really have no idea what is going on, but my cheeks hurt from smiling.
We hop in a cab shortly before the bar closes. We zip through the city, to a place in the Pearl. She’s housesitting for some very wealthy people. Standing in the kitchen, drinking some water, she yells at me to "stay there." I see her bolting up the stairs with an armful of pillows. I watch her make three more trips. Puzzling.
Ten minutes later, she commands me to come upstairs. I cautiously climb the steps, half expecting an ambush of some sort. Reaching the top, I instead find a hastily, yet impressively constructed pillow fort.
I pause for a second, soaking it all in.
“You in there?” I say. I can see her shadows on the sheet roof.
“There’s only one way to find out...” She responds, coyly.
"Is this up to code? Can I see your permits?" I say, pulling back the sheet door to find her perched atop a nest of comforters, a flashlight in hand, wearing nothing but a smile.
Goddamn.
-----
Professionally, the months leading up to 2013 were filled with little more than a crushing workload made worse by ridiculous deadlines. When a company pays for a multi-million media blitz (their phrase, not mine…) on Christmas day, slipping a deadline isn’t an option.
Being the most senior developer on the project, I took lead. After the brainstorming, pitch, revisions, contracts, planning and research, we only really had about two and a half weeks to actually build everything. Which wouldn’t have been a problem, except for two factors:
_ massive traffic spikes. When subjected to huge numbers of visitors, the weak points in your system will crumble. Identifying and fortifying these things takes time.
_ a global campaign. We had to support 50+ countries and hundreds of regional user accounts for content editing / translations. Complicated and error prone, if not done right.
It was pretty brutal. I was never not thinking about how to solve the numerous puzzles we ran into. I carried a notepad around with me to capture random thoughts. I dreamt of code.
Christmas day, I find myself perched on a couch, wielding a laptop. I have twelve windows open, reporting the status of the servers / application. I don’t hate it, but I’m burnt out on this project, irritated that my job requires me to work on Christmas.
My father and I are watching the basketball game. Suddenly, the feature commercial comes on, part of their ‘blitz.’ Having seen countless revisions of it over the course of the project, it was mighty neat to see it being broadcast for reals. A little moment of victory.
Moments later, my laptop starts buzzing with activity. I immediately see the traffic logs start flying. There’s a giant influx of users. As more and more pile onto the servers, I watch the intricate inner workings of what we’d built spin into action. I spend a few minutes marveling at how everything just ... works.
Remember that game, Mousetrap? Remember how satisfying it was to watch the trap run it’s course after painstakingly setting it all up? Well, imagine that on a much larger scale, with thousands of tiny moving parts that you had personally handcrafted. A big moment of victory.
-----
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I'm 15 and there's a sizable group of us at the park, just a few miles from the high school. I don't want to be there, but I don't have a car, so I have little option.
Two aggressive boys start arguing over something unimportant. One of them, Shawn, is an angry, vicious boy. Tall, strong, cruel. He pushes the other guy. The crowd instintively forms a semicircle.
Collectively, most of the group knows the following details:
_ Shawn stole a carved-stone chess-set from Ferguson's father
_ He has a chess peice in his pocket.
_ He thinks it'll make a great fistpack.
_ He's been looking for a fight all day.
_ Today. After school. At the park.
Collectively, we know these things because Shawn told us. During second-period Spanish.
He pushes the other guy again, swearing this time. The other guy pushes back, at which point Shawn unleashes his attack.
Noone intervenes, or says anything. On the contrary: The crowd of boys are rabid, excited by the real-life brutality. Bloodlust.
Shawn achieves his goal quickly, demolishing the other guy to point where he can't even stand up. Shawn laughs, as do some of the other boys.
I feel sick. I should have done something.
Shawn turns to leave the scene, tossing the chess peice on the ground just a few feet away. A white rook. Faint traces of blood on the parapet.
A rook in the hand is worth two on the board.
-----
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The most depressing Valentine’s Day that I’ve ever experienced. By the time I awoke, she was halfway across the country, traveling further still.
We both knew it was coming, but neither of us were prepared for it.
Her last night in town, I presented my 'farewell' gift. I agonized over a mix for her, mixing it down to cassette tape. Additionally, I had procured a vintage walkman, complete with shitty headphones, so that she could listen to it on the plane ride.
Walking away from our last kiss, I’m puzzled and underwhelmed by a complete lack of finality. It isn't until I glance in my rearview mirror to catch her waving goodbye that it strikes me — that familiar pang of heartbreak.
Fuck.
-----
A dull roar from somewhere far off catches my attention.
Shining bright, the stars look jumbled and foreign.
Chest, tense, the sting of cold air.
This isn't all that foreign,
my grandfather once taught me how to wield a knife,
I've just never been on the receiving end.
A few flashy slashes, misdirection, surprise.
Come from below, try to get under the ribs:
That's where the important parts are.
Keep your legs firmly planted.
Lift and twist.
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