Vintage Misery

Ivan Pavlov is a Russian physiologist who made a discovery in dog salivation rates. Boring, I know, but stick with me. He discovered that when dog was subjected to the sound of a bell at the same time it was presented with food in consecutive sequences, the dog would eventually salivate when the bell was present. He called it the conditional reflex. His research suggests that conditional reflex is the reason whenever I have a pen in my hands, I will end up releasing my thoughts. Whenever I eat a peanut butter sandwich, I will cut the crust off. Whenever I see Patrick my muscle memory consists of reaching out for him whenever he's within arm's reach.

And whenever I see an opportunity to fuck everything up, I do.

I'm laid across the bed, twirling my ever present tumor in my hands; my cellphone. Except now I call it my life preserver because I can't let it go, and I don't want to. Without it, I am drowning in my sea of misery, waiting for her to throw me a line of interest. I don't want to call her like I've been maniacally doing the last few days; I'm even starting to realize how clingy I'm getting. When that rope is thrown, I don't want to grab it, but I will. Loosing hope, I toss it behind my head.

And then the rope is thrown: my phone alights and buzzes; and I start and launch across the bed to grab it, sighing as I put it down. The name Michelle across it. God, I even hate that fucking name. It's so plain and ordinary; to make matters worse it sounds like hers, only bitter. Rolls off my tongue with in a blatant mumble and makes it feel dirty, because my tongue wants to hit the roof of my mouth and shout her name.

Michelle is christening my phone, and I feel like diving down to the depths of the ocean, all alone with exotic fish and unseen wonders of the dark void, just to get away. She is obsessed with me; and I would rather feel bulletproof loneliness than deal with her. I get my wish and the tumor grows benign, so I can let a breath I've been holding out.

So I call Patrick. Patrick can tell I've got to be desperate calling him; he lets the phone ring and ring. I know he's ready to chew me out. The truth is, Patrick is the only person I like to talk to on the phone, because I like to hear his voice. It calms me. He's never been a big texter like me; he's clumsy at it. It's funny that he is a genius with a guitar, and I can barely play my bass well enough to have a part in this band. After the show I had escaped to my and Joe's place. I can't go home; I already know that's where Patrick is. And if he's there, she's with him.

Eventually, I hear the call connect and Patrick's voice, low. "Hello?"

"Where are you?" I ask, but I know where he is.

He sighs. He knew I would ask this, but he plays his part. "I'm at your mother's house."

I don't say anything, because he also knows what I want.

"Look," he says, cutting into my mood, "She's here, and she wants to see you."

"Why?" I demand.

"I don't know why, Pete, that's between you." Patrick sighs, exasperated.

"I'm coming over."

"Okay. Bye." Always with the formalities; he's annoyed with me, but he won't just hang up.

I sit there and roll my phone in my hands, and feel them itch for a cigarette. I light one up and inhale deeply, sitting on the bed with my feet on the floor. I could go home if I wanted to; in fact I probably would have if I hadn't seen her in the crowd.

I get excited to see her again; my stomach jumps around. I dress warmly; pulling another hoodie on over my Clandestine one I'm wearing; its a new design; a heart with a skull on one side, and bat wings. I'm actually really proud of it, and I really can't wait to show her. I wore it for the show, but I doubt she would have noticed.

I finally get up and make my way into the living room of the tiny apartment Joe and I share.

"Hoe, you owe me some money!" I yell as I come into the living room, smacking the back of the couch to get his attention. We play a game, and with tonight's performance, I won. The rules of the game are quite simple; annoy Patrick without making him boiling fucking mad. There's a fine line, and I play it pretty well. I can usually talk him out of it, but Joe has a tendency of completely fucking up, and when he does it Patrick will give him the silent treatment for days. The last time I got it that bad was when we were playing another home show and I taken the mic and got into the crowd, and accidentally managed to wrap the mic cord around all the mikestands...needless to say, they followed me into the crowd and Patrick had nearly had conniptions onstage. It took making up to him with a fine bottle of Jameson. The kid is a fuckin' whiskey buff like his name was Jimmy Jam.

The living room is like the rest of the apartment; cramped, dirty, and smells like ballsacs and nachos.* The coffee table is littered with wrappers of candy, hot pockets containers, red bulls, with Joe's best friend in the center of it, call her Mary Jane--currently responsible for his devil's dick red eyes and him humming a Britney Spears song under his breath. He barely registers me over 'Baby One More Time'.

"I'm going to my mom's," I grunt, passing him on the couch. He's sprawled across it, our friend Ben on the other one, both intently focused on playing Mario kart.

"Fuck," Joe curses under his breath as he accidentally careens off the map. I roll my eyes and grab my coat with the fur around the hood, and open the door out into the billowing wind of the night.

I drive the car Joe and I share to my parent's house and park in the driveway, preparing to step in to the cold. Chicago winters are enough to make a person hate the world. The people that grow in it and manage to stay alive, well we are probably some of the more stubborn motherfuckers on the face of the earth, but we are also some of the realest. There isn't room for frivolity here; survival is the most important.

I crunch my way across the snow, cursing my thin Vans and lack of socks. At least my mom will probably pity me and do my laundry. I knock my shoes off against the bench next to the door to get some of the snow stuck to them off, and prepare to go inside; I walk in and take a second to appreciate that my mother keeps the house pretty warm all winter. My cheeks are already numb when I step inside, and I hear soft chatter in kitchen. I hear her laugh, and I feel nauseous.