Pockets of Peace/Convenience Isn't a Virtue, it is a Mortal Sin
#21
Bass lines and inebriated yelling faded as I traversed my way to the narrow gap between college houses to relieve myself and take a breather from the mania. The side-alley piss was (and still is) perhaps one of life’s greatest feelings at the time; it was a moment to collect one’s self, evaluate the situation of drunkenness, and admire the fact that you are, in fact, a member of the human species. Off in the distance, my compatriots were taking turns smashing a junkyard car with a sledgehammer, one that had been painted in the colors of our opponents – a classic game day bonding activity. I had taken my swings, and now it was time to slip off into the abyss and contemplate the state of my own stupor – ahhhhhhh.
I finished up, and as I was making my way back to the mob of hooligans crowding the front lawn, a familiar female face appeared in front of me, as if she had been waiting for me the entire time, and this thought rattled me a bit – was she really watching me take a leak? I suppose there are stranger – you know what, I’m not even going to acknowledge that thought – fuck you guys. This girl was a ghost of my hometown; a hallucination wafting off the pavement like an eerie mist, as conversation had never occurred between the two of us prior to our current interaction, but I knew her, and (of course) she knew me.
Do I know you?
Except it came out as more of a statement, rather than a question. And there was emphasis on the final word of the sentence.
Do I know YOU. Yes, you.
Yeah, Kiersten from [redacted]. I’m two years older than you. I go here.
(Right, of course. Kiersten, the girl known for her slutty nun costume. To be fair, it was a good costume.)
Right, Kiersten [redacted], you’re friends with [redacted friend of mine] and you know [redacted girl I may or may not have hooked up with].
Yes! Do you know [redacted]?
Yeah, he’s cool. Haven’t talked to him in a minute though. What are you doing here?
Oh, my friend, she’s in [redacted]. Thought I would tag along for the car smash.
Nice, yeah my buddy is also in [redacted]. Car smash is a great idea. Fuck Penn State.
Agreed. What are you up to later?
Great question. We’re headed to the game, then probably a quick recovery and bars after. Will I see you out?
That’s up for you to decide.
(What the fuck?)
Sounds good, Kiersten. I’m gonna get back to it. See you later.
Bye!
And as those bass lines grew louder and the yells became more piercing, I wondered why in the Hell I had seen Kiersten from [redacted] on a random Saturday afternoon, and if I would see her later that evening.
If you listen closely, you can hear murmurs of idealistic tranquility amongst the rambunctious strumming of the tightly-wound guitar strings of life.
Just like speculators of financial assets search for pockets of inefficiency within the otherwise perfect markets in hope for an opportunity to return a sum of coin worth more than the initial wager, we too are gamblers, searching for pockets of peace within our chaotic existence, which are carefully hidden within our city walls and streets like loot-laced Easter eggs scattered throughout grandma’s backyard on a flowery spring day.
I am often brought to a state of disbelieved fascination when I stroll around my domain; frequently, I will stumble upon a section of the concrete jungle that is so calm and quiet it is quite difficult to believe it is a real place. Yes, of course the parks and greeneries are absent of the normal, everyday hustle and bustle that is associated with humans participating in the rat race; but even beyond the dedicated areas of serenity, there are unintentionally halcyon spaces that no rational human being would think of being peaceful in the first place.
For example, just the other evening, I was on a leisurely stroll, when I decided to simply march my happy ass up and down the empty streets, rather than adhering to the recommended sidewalk. Surely, city planners had not anticipated that happening. And I hardly consider myself a rule breaker. But what is the difference, dear reader, between a sidewalk and a road? The elevation changes? Sure, to a measly insect, the ascent from the turning lane to atop the curb might be one of legendary status that will be passed on to future hexapods. But to a human, it is just a slight raising of the left (or right) foot mid-stride to get from asphalt to concrete. So why not view the abandoned pavement as a giant playground.
[One of the reasons I am able to do this meandering through the streets and roadways without fear of loss of life or limb is because my city is what I would consider a commuter city, rising to its glory post invention of the automobile, constructed with the end goal of facilitating the movement of traffic as efficiently as possible. Because of this, most people find themselves transporting themselves between suburb and city center via a four-wheeled vehicle, for both work and play (in particular, the part about play is a sad state of affairs. The tragedy of youths living in the suburb and having to herd themselves into a stranger’s minivan like cattle being shepherded to slaughter is a thought that shivers my spine and radicalizes my heart. To put it nicely, fuck Uber, fuck Lyft, Lime Scooters are fun while intoxicated, and taxi drivers get a pass because they are nostalgic relics of an era past. But very few feelings are better than the one of stumbling, bumbling, and mumbling around town, walking to every dive bar and upscale club, chain smoking cigarettes, and finally clearing one’s head and strolling home under the moonlight when it’s time to go home. I’ve written about this plenty of times, but it must be stated once more – walk everywhere). Of course, the lack of reliable public transportation also plays a factor in this behavioral pattern, but I will stop this thought here, as I do not wish to turn this stream of consciousness into a masturbative theoretical think piece, in which I yell at political enemies and imagine an altruistic future in which fat-chested nymphs frolic around walkable communes with their army of based trad children.]
Instead, I will return to admiring my pockets of peace, which present themselves with each passing evening as the commuters once again make their way to the expressway and return to their humble abodes in the safety of the modern-day housing suburb (I am trying my best not to judge, but I fear that ship has sailed long ago – positivity, Tony, positivity). And yet there even still are quiet Edens that sit within the corporation limits – neighborhoods with billowing Victorian-style houses, most of which have stood for nearly a century – and you forget that the busy city life exists when your meandering leads you through these parts, despite their foundations being just a hop and a skip away from the heart of civilization. If you listen closely, you can even hear the conversations of years past happening on the broad front porches and in narrow side yards:
Johnny boy! You must be on a toot. If those crocuses get any more water they will endure the same fate as the Titanic!
Phonus balonus, Mr. Pimbleton! Unlike you, I know my onions. Besides, it’s been muggier than a street hooker’s twat.
I don’t know how you and Margaret are managing. Dorothy hasn’t shut her trap about it in a fortnight. She’s been smoked the past three nights.
She’s a real screwy, isn’t she!
Amen, my brother in Christ. She ain’t mid, no cap!
Fr fr dawg! By the way, that moonshine is finna bussin!
God bless fam. I stan it high-key. IYKYK.
Wait a minute, were we supposed to be talking in 1920’s slang or 2020’s slang?
Idk bro, he said ‘20s slang, I’m assuming he meant both.
Whatever homie, this shit hits different. It’s the bee’s knees.
And I wonder if those broad front porches and narrow side yards would make for great chase montages in neo-noir crime thrillers or romantic cutaway scenes in coming of age indie films. I wonder if in years past bootleggers were outrunning narcs as they attempted to flee to their safehouses, and if entire dynasties were being planned by optimistic, first generation immigrants, and if life really was much embryonic and singular just one century ago. Of course, I have my doubts.
One of my favorite pockets of peace is a small village, strategically situated just west of the river that divides the metro area in two, where just a few thousand people live, and yet pockets are deep, drama is rife, and life is so complicated and simple at the same time, I ponder if someone has placed the final piece in the jigsaw puzzle of a location.
It is a spot that is near and dear to my heart, and one that I often frequent to clear the mind and soul and get away from it all, without really getting away from it all. These spots are important to my health; it is not a cold mountain retreat hundreds of miles from the nearest sign of life; rather it is a place where I can calm my ever so rattling nerves and still feel the warmth of the human experience. This may involve roaming around with romantic interests while sipping on a steaming cup of inspiration, sharing stories and making acute observations of surroundings in between full cup and empty cup. It may also involve marching around the quaint town center, sweaty and shirtless after a grueling sprint workout at the high school track, where the giggling soccer team was blessed to see you dry heaving in the southwest corner garbage can following your 3rd straight 400. A tale of two cities.
There is a local bar on the corner, known colloquially known as “the cafe” by my age group, where I once got chirped by a nearby table (who I did know) for ordering a Pabst Blue Ribbon (fuck off). And of course, just across the street and down a few hundred yards, there is a proper cafe, which is a favorite spot for locals and out-of-towners alike. And there is the ice cream shoppe, and the independent theater, and the accountant man, and the wealth advisor man, and the realtor, and the girly spa, and the dog and the duck, and everyone knows your name. You walk around town with a local girl, and most everyone will know her name and face.
And so following one thousand or so words of incoherence, I’ve come to absolutely zero meaningful or productive conclusions, and that is quite alright, as you all have been reading me long enough to know there is not start or end to the chaos here in Tony’s world. Perhaps the purpose of this particular piece of prose was to let you all know that sometimes my eyes and mind and body grow tired and weary from the constant trials and tribulations in all facets of life, and sometimes I want nothing but to wander around a quiet sector of the world whilst I prepare to once more enter the breach, dear friends. Those breaths you take in between the crashing waves are sweetest, most satisfying ones your lungs will ever taste, and for a moment, you believe all’s well before the cinderblocks you tied to your own ankles drag you down to the expecting seabed. Those pockets of inefficiency, pockets of peace, seem to hold all of it together.
Convenience is Not a Virtue, it is a Mortal Sin
CVS convenience stores are ALWAYS run-down pieces of garbage shit, no matter what neighborhood they are found in. Always. Will not explain. You can add Walgreens to that list as well.
I recall a scorching hot summer day - a record setting day of heat, if my memory serves me well - and it usually does, and I was meandering around the neighborhood on a trademark long walk of mine. An errand needed run, and I was thirsty - after all, I just walked 6-8 miles in the 120 degree heat. My hamstrings were tweaking like a crackhead on meth, and I needed some enslaved hydration, the kind you find entrapped in plastic bottles, or else I will wither away like a wild wallflower wilting in the wreaking heat. As I enter the desecrated dungeon that is the local CVS, the wall of air conditioning smacks me in the face, as if I am a cheating boyfriend, and while I acknowledge it feels refreshing, I long for an alternate universe where air conditioning was never invented, and instead we are left with a society that is unproductive, grouchy, hangry, and otherwise pissed off at the general establishment of life. The extreme heat is man’s opportunity to prove himself to God and the Heavens, so when I see the temperature hit 120, I immediately flip the plastic switch from “ON” to “OFF” on my thermostat. We all know that the 11th Commandment etched into Moses’ stone reads: “thou shall not touch another man’s thermostat”. No one touches the thermostat except the hand that feeds me. Within a few minutes, my floor to ceiling windows are hemorrhaging raw sun power through the transparent panes and into my living room. Of course, the door to my patio is also open, welcoming in all foreign objects and insects and fruit flies and whoever else wants to keep me company on this sweltering summer day. One time, there was a massive yellow jacket that casually waltzed through those doors one day. No, it wasn’t a yellow jacket; I looked this up, because the flying monstrosity had a silhouette I had never laid eyes on before. It was a type of wasp, not the one that goes to brunch after church on Sundays, but one that is endemic to most of North America. Interesting. He had also decided to pack up his belongings from his cozy stead in the countryside and mindlessly migrate to the dangers of the city. Noble. For this reason, I decided to lay down my arms at the middle of the battlefield (a Swiffer mop), and make a truce with this gorgeous beast. He commanded my respect, as I did with him, and we enjoyed our company as we both rode out the inferno. I had no doubt that my waspy comrade also enjoyed the heat; he appreciated back sweat leaking down into your boxers as you played your 7th straight cornhole game at the graduation party; or cruising around with the windows down, not even considering touching that godforsaken dial with the gradient blue lines signifying “cold”; he might even appreciate an ice cold Mountain Dew after a hard day of yardwork in the sun. Cheers mate.
Anyway, I walked into this CVS as a man on a mission – I needed stamps. Unfortunately, my escapades at the most recent wedding I attended rendered me unable to deliver my gift while I was physically present, and so I needed to parcel my gift (a stack of cash in an envelope, mafia style) across the Midwest via the good old fashioned post office. Could not tell you the last time I mailed something; the entire system feels obsolete, and this feeling certainly was cemented as I wandered around the halls of the drug store aimlessly searching for my desired object. I did not one, not two, but three separate loops by the pharmacist’s counter, refusing to ask for help, as I highly doubt Hernan Cortez sought assistance from a store associate wearing a nametag as he traversed South American jungle in search of glory. I was so delirious that at one point, Jason Statham must have been chasing me around the aisles, throwing me into shelves, tossing entire racks of greeting cards aside as he attempted to apprehend me, the perpetrator, in an action film style police chase, occasionally taking pop shots at me with his trusty pistol, busting lights, scaring off patrons, etc. I was peeping around aisles, checking endcaps, perusing through the home and office section, still in a daze from my sweat-inducing trek, when finally, I gave in, and wandered to the front of the store to ask the lovely lady at the first cashier station:
Excuse me miss, do you guys sell stamps here?
Yes, we do. How many do you need?
Great, do you know where I would find them?
I have them behind the counter. Do you need a sheet?
Yes, Do you know where I can find them? Are they in the back? I didn’t see them by the home and office supplies.
They’re behind the counter, sweetie. You won’t find them on the shelves.
Oh, gotcha, yeah I see. Yeah a sheet of them will do. Might as well stock up. I don’t have any right now.
Great. Yeah, we don’t keep them out on the floor. I mean people steal candy bars and razors, for Christ sakes! Imagine if we kept stamps out there as well.
Interesting, I did not know that.
Yes, it’s a crazy world out there child! (her thick Caribbean accent made this conversation that much funnier and wholesome)
Oh I know.
My sentiment was confirmed as I paid for my postage and thanked the kind cashier for her help and insight into the mood. As I strolled back through those automatic sliding doors, I took one more look at the forgone establishment wedged at the end of a shopping mall and marveled at the enigma that was the urban CVS. In there you would find pharmacists, both young and old, fresh off 7 years of grueling schooling, dishing out prescription meds to people making one-tenth of their salary. And yet their break room was the same as the guy wrangling shopping carts in the parking lot at the grocery store down the street. Inside those walls, you would find tweakers looking for a snack, shoplifters getting high on the thrill of trafficking a snickers bar, drunk college kids restocking on floor-stored wine and Natural Light, sweaty maniacs buying stamps on a random Tuesday afternoon, menopausal women picking up pickles, ice cream, and 75 different new shades of lipstick, Bob from accounting buying the 3-in-1 shampoo because it was a dollar off with his CVS card, my own mother buying random trinkets and items, stoned guys staring into the abyss that is the ice cream freezer, enough office supplies to run a small business, overly-complicated printing systems, the dreaded minute clinic, where a guy you are not even sure is a real doctor will putz around and put on a wonderful facade acting like he cares about the root cause of your mysterious illness before finally giving into frustration and handing you an antibiotic script instead, an array of eye glasses, photo development, hopes, dreams, consumerism, etc.
Fascinating.
Onwards,
Tony
Humble Wordsmith
Sweaty Maniac
The Bee’s Knees
“i like those adjectives writer boy”
Great work!
Special thanks for this “If you listen closely, you can hear murmurs of idealistic tranquility amongst the rambunctious strumming of the tightly-wound guitar strings of life” and 20s slang dialogue.