They rode down the turnpike, listening to music from 2004. It had been a good day. There seemed to be no one else on the road as they sang out loud. “Steady as she goes, steady as she goes.”
Angels looked down upon them as they sang. But, singing was not what brought them here. Music brought them, but these two weren’t the best singers. An A chord was played, with an Fsharp added, followed by a Gmajor7 chord. That was good.
Day 8
The two sat at the table, listening to Angelo talk. Ang was a manager. He had decided to put together a band and was collecting talent. One-hundred thousand people, he had said. That’s the size of the crowd he wanted us to play for in the next few years. Six months, he said. That’s how long he wanted it take for us to start touring. Eight, he said. That’s how many songs he had ideas for already. He began to drop names. Jimmy Buffet here, Orlando there, Aerosmith here, Nashville there. These were some of his contacts. He had good contacts. The two listened contently, the excitement silently growing. The one sitting across from Ang would be rhythm guitarist. The one at the end of the table was the pianist. They needed a lead guitarist; there was someone in mind. They needed a bassist; one had already been contacted. They would need a drummer; that one was a bit tougher. A lead vocalist would be good; they had two prospects but no commitment as of yet. A violinist? Did anyone know any violinists? Brass would be a nice thing to have, or even woodwind. There was a trombonist who would be great. A sax-player was mentioned. Maybe a flute or a clarinet? Someone would look into that. They needed all the instruments they could get, even if they wouldn’t all be played for every song. They wanted the option of having violins backing up the guitarists and pianist. They wanted the option of ska-ifying a song using trombones and trumpets. They wanted to be great.
Day 7
He leaned back and stared at the ceiling, the feeling of dizziness overwhelming him. Pieces of images turned and moved, going in and out of existence as he looked at the texture of the ceiling presented before him. The straight blinds behind him curved and skewed, creating an imperfect arc. Everything slowed down, but the feelings of dizziness continued. The images stopped their motion and left themselves as a man looking away from him in defiance. He hadn’t felt like this in a long time, not since they had upped the dosage of his Abilify. Maybe his body was getting used to it. It did always seem to happen like that when it came to his antipsychotics. At least he wasn’t hearing voices. “At least”. Had it finally been drilled into his head that auditory hallucinations were bad for him? No. It was just a momentary lapse of judgment. He longed to have sounds with his visuals. Like it had been before.
Day 6
Everyone sits asleep on their respective instruments. Fingers on a guitar are the only things moving. The guitar’s dulcet tones are the only things that could be heard. A long-haired figure wakes out of his coma for a second.
“It’s a Damn Cruise Ship.” He falls back to sleep. The guitarist comes out of his sleep, now.
“Aaah-ahah-ah-ah-ah-ah.” During this drawn out yawn, everyone sitting around begins to wake up. The guitarist continues.
“What are we going to do today?”
“I don’t know.” The long-haired figure chimes in.
“Why don’t we go to the park?”
“What?”
Suddenly, the guitarist begins playing faster.
“We’re gonna have a picnic, we can all go to the park. It’s a great day isn’t it, we can play until it’s dark,” all of the awake sleepers chime in. “We’re gonna have a picnic, we can all go to the park. It’s a great day isn’t it, we can play until it’s dark. Aaah-ahah-ah-ah-ah-ah. Bahbah baaah-ahah-ah-ah-ah-ah. Bahbah baaah-ahah-ah-ah-ah-ah. Bahbah baaah-ahah-ah-ah-ah-ah.”
A vocalist in the back chimes in. “I packed us some orange slices and some napkins if you need them. I made a bunch of sandwiches and babe we’re going to eat them. The birds are all singing and the sky is clear and blue, but my favorite is being at this picnic with you.”
Again, everyone joins with ahs and bahs, “Aaah-ahah-ah-ah-ah-ah. Aaah-ahah-ah-ah-ah-ah. Bahbah baaah-ahah-ah-ah-ah-ah.” Before their next bout, the music stops except for the beating of a ping pong ball against a bottle of pills. “Bahbah baaah-ahah-ah-ah-ah-ah. Bahbah baaah-ahah-ah-ah-ah-ah.” The music begins again quite suddenly. “We’re gonna have a picnic, we can all go to the park. It’s a great day isn’t it, we can play until it’s dark. We’re gonna have a picnic, we can all go to the park. It’s a great day isn’t it, we can play until it’s dark.”
Another singer to the left chimes in with a “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,” as the music momentarily stops. The music begins in a more somber tone. “But what if it rains on our heads, the shitty whether that we dread. I swear I’ll stomp on any ants until they’re motherfucking dead.” The background begins chanting “Ooooh,” while he continues. “This picnic is doomed, this picnic is doomed. This picnic is doomed, this picnic is doomed.”
The music again stops as the vocalist in the back again comes in. “Hey, Fuck you.”
“We’re gonna have a picnic, we can all go to the park. It’s a great day isn’t it, we can play until it’s dark. We’re gonna have a picnic, we can all go to the park. It’s a great day isn’t it, we can play until it’s dark. We can play until it’s dark. We can play until it’s dark.”
Day 5
He sat on the small chair in a cluttered room. Yet, to him, there was nothing around. The only things that existed were him, his chair, and his banjo.
Day 4
What I really want is cancer. I want to die with no choice. I want everyone who loves me to see me before I die. I want to see them. I want to see them all knowing that I won’t be there for much longer and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. I want to see people cry. I want to pat someone on the back and lie to them that it’ll all be ok. I want everything to be alright with everyone and then I want it to disappear. I want to feel the barrel of a gun in my mouth, waiting for it to go off, and tell my story in only vowels. I want people to hate me. I want them to hate the fact that I’m leaving them. I want people to ignore me. Pretend that nothing is happening. Pretend that I never happened. I want the world to hate me for abandoning it. I want God to hate me for not coming to him in my time of need. I want my parents to feel the pain of losing a child. I want my brother to feel the pain of losing a brother. I want my closest friends to know that this is what I wanted so that they would feel no pain at all.
It was five o’clock in the morning and he continued to think as he walked down the road.
Day 3
He sat at the piano and played two chords. C Major then A Minor. He swirled his shoulders and tried to crack his knuckles. It’s important to limber up. He pressed down the keys. Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Wait, wait, wait. He began playing the same song with a reggae beat. After a few measures he stopped. C Major, F Major, F Minor. He began rocking his left hand on the F Minor, playing F, then Aflat and C together. F then A flat and C together. He switched to Bflat Major, keeping his thumb on F and moving his middle finger and pinky to Bflat and D. He switched back to F Minor, then to Bflat Major again. He then began his right hand. F, G, Aflat, C, G Aflat, F, G, D, Eflat. F, G, Aflat, C, G Aflat, F, G, D, Eflat. All around me are familiar faces, worn out places, worn out faces. Gary Jules was a genius. He finished this song and paused for a few moments. He began rocking his hand in a different spot, this time changing from four repetitions of D, A and D together then Fsharp, A and Csharp together. Hey there Delilah, what’s it like in New York City, I’m a thousand mile away but girl tonight you look so pretty, yes you do. He played two verses of this song followed by the chorus, then paused again. I backed my car into a cop car the other day, well he drove off sometimes life’s ok. Hello darkness my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again. Am I more than you bargained for yet, I’ve been dying to tell you anything you want to hear, because that’s just who I am this week. Woke up this morning, smiled at the rising son, three little birds, sat at my doorstep, singing their sweet tune of melodies pure and true, they said, this is our message to you. The lights go out and I can’t be saved, tides that I tried to swim against, have brought me down upon my knees, oh I beg I beg and plead.
He stood up and walked away.
Day 2
He followed the therapist into her office. It was the first time he’d had an appointment with her since their establishment moved. He wasn’t sure what he was going to talk about today, nothing seemed to be wrong at the moment. He was living in a state of euphoria. There was a desk in one corner of the room, and two couches perpendicular to each other in the opposite corner. He sat down on the couch closest to the door. She grabbed a pad off of her desk and sat at the other couch.
Everything was perfect. He had been happy since the Zoloft kicked in. The upped Abilify wasn’t having any adverse affects. All remnants of any psychosis were gone. He was starting new projects. He was writing again. He was drawing again. He was organized, and energetic. This was going to be a short session.
“Are you sleeping?” The phrase was like a trigger for the appointment to begin its slide downhill.
Day 1
He stood in the kitchen, looking upon his domain. He opened up the refrigerator to his right, pulling out a jar and a carton of eggs. He walked a few feet to his left and opened up a cabinet, taking out a small bowl and a plate. He walked to his new left and opened up a different cabinet, taking out a container of flour. He took a whisk from the counter, a knife and a large, plastic spoon from a drawer and a Ziploc bag from yet another cabinet before ending up at the table in the middle of the room with everything he needed. He opened up the jar. Pickles. Whole, dill pickles. He took out two of them and placed them on the plate. He then grabbed the knife and began chopping until each pickle was sliced into dozens of chips. He took out two eggs and cracked them in succession on the bowl, emptying their yellowish contents into it. He then began pouring flour from its container into the Ziploc bag. About a sixth of the bag? Should be enough. He took the whisk and beat the eggs until it was all one uniform substance. He then began placing his pickle chips into the eggs. Once the bowl was full and plate was empty, he spooned the pickles out with his large, plastic spoon and placed them into the Ziploc bag of flour. Time to shake. He shook the bag for a few seconds, making sure that each pickle was completely coated. He moved his bag over to the counter next to the stove. He then put away the eggs, flour and pickles, and placed all dirty dishes, except for the spoon, into the sink.
It was time to cook. He grabbed another plate from the cabinet and placed two paper towels on it to soak up excess grease. He then found a pan, a spatula and the Crisco. He placed the pan on the stove, poured some oil into it and turned the burner on. Heat, six. He waited a few moments, walked over to the sink, turned it on for a second to get some water on his fingers, and flicked the water into the pan. It popped and steamed. Perfect. He began spooning floury pickles into the pan using the already dirtied spoon. As soon as all of the pickles were in, it was time to flip. He began using the spatula to flip each pickle, beginning with the right side, the side with the pickles which first entered the pan. As soon as all pickles were flipped, it was time to take them out. Frying pickles was a quick process. He used the spatula to take all of the pickles out of the pan and place them on the paper-towel-ed plate. Wonderful.
