Somebody Still Loves Me:

"How can you quit a job in this economy?"
No need for proper tenses now. Or grammar. Or linear chronology. Not when you’re free as a pirate on the sea, spun and tossed atop life’s frothy waves like a loose ragdoll in the last car of The Cyclone. No job. No attachments. Finally able to breathe after our escape from the steamy City and its ozone-choked air. Out to Coney Island and its ocean breeze and its rickety, wooden roller-coaster that smashed my brain concussively, side-to-side in my skull as my sister and little niece howled and shrieked in the terrified exultation of the ride’s unseen, hairpin turns. Life passing so fast that time almost stopped--only now and nowness in the vortex of my vertigo.

"I love you Uncle Lodo," Jaybird emphasized with an unsolicited hug as I stumbled out the last car of the small coaster; Jay’s young arms wrapped tight 'round my waist as though I were a lifejacket, though in truth I was the one in need as I fumbled for balance beneath the bright suspended moon that glowed above our insignificance down to the boardwalk below. Weekends, weekdays--nothing but days thru which I float now that I’ve removed myself from the gravitational force of the workweek.

"How do you quit a $________ a year job in this economy? my mom asked incredulously. You know how many people would kill for that job?

“I told you on the phone, I was insulted.”

“Excuse me?” my mom asked, though I know she heard me.

“I was insulted and humiliated,” I told her again, “..in front of all my co-workers. I don’t know why my boss did that. All I ever did was make him look great.”

My mom looked at me quizzically. As though something were missing behind my eyes, or perhaps something was there she hadn’t seen before.

“You were insulted Lodo?-- so the hell what?! Who are you? That was a good job. Every two weeks you got paid. And to think you just walked away with no prospects. Now what’re you gonna do for health insurance? And you can’t even collect unemployment ‘cause you quit. Where’s your responsibility? How could you just up and do that?”

Now it was my turn to look at her quizzically.

“’Cause I’m great and I’m not going to be treated like that.”

“What?” my mom asked with a sarcastic laugh as her arms dropped to her sides with a pronounced slap against her thighs. “What’d you say?”

“I said I’m great,” I repeated as I locked eyes with hers. “You of all people should realize that.”

But she just shook her head and stormed out the room.

But that’s all in the past, just like that job or the minute or two since this post first started. In my mind I can control time’s direction, but otherwise its always forward, forward--older and older till the lifeforce fades and fear sets-in and; if you’re like most, you get married, have kids, cling to a job in a desperate attempt for a sense of permanency or security. Something to keep you anchored in the sea of lonely, terrifying possibility we call freedom.

“What’re you thinking about Uncle Lodo?” my niece asked as we stood on the boardwalk and stared out at the moon-lit ocean.

“...I’m thinking we should ride The Cyclone again. What do you think?”

Jaybird laughed and stomped her feet as she immediately pulled me toward the coaster.

“I love you Uncle Lodo.”



Kid Creole & The Coconuts: Endicott