This Means So Much

Some say no reality exists. Others say it exists, but humans cannot ever know that reality because all we have to rely on is our flawed perception, discredited for its ability to be deceived.

Often it is heard "this doesn't feel right” or "I know it in my heart.” Emotion, the absolute. Emotion, controller of men and father of thought.

Inescapable, unstable words. Manipulations of meanings create power and neuter responsibility.

However.

For Gandy Ardoren, crisis time arrived each night near bedtime. Maybe he was too sensitive, or maybe his senses worked too well. Maybe he was able to see and hear, while very few others did. The worn, short-backed sofa offered little comfort, Gandy's neck worked hard to hold up his head. Thin in the middle, thick on the sides, the cushion showed the extent of his sitting. The switch on the table lamp clicked once for dim, the ashtray nearly full, and the broken clock that clicked over one minute for every hour that passed.

It wasn’t hot in Gandy's apartment, but his sweat-soaked T-shirt clung tightly to him, begging for some small breeze to blow through the open window. No breeze tonight, simple stillness.

With a flash of fire and one quick breath, another cigarette was born. Deep draw. Deep draw. Flick. Deep draw, slow exhale. With a stab and a twist the cigarette found death among his brothers. Gandy leaned forward, rested his face on the fingertips of his right hand, closed his eyes, and giggled.

Until recently, these nights of solitude had been discomforting. The difficult springtime with its sun and rain and budding plants and general rebirth. Springtime and its rebirth while Gandy Ardoren sat there each night dealing with dissonance.

The social animal, no slave to popularity, the blazer of the style trail, the hummingbird that flaps its wings so fast and lands so infrequently. This piper was his own flute, and he played himself perfectly. The state of perpetual following.

It did begin, it must have begun. Subtlety lost on the pegged 440. But by and by, with the tick and the tock, engines need rest and they will take it when they need it and ask no questions. Often, the pissed-off driver wonders what the hell happened, where the hell that came from. And so it was.

Innocent beginnings, hostile takeovers. Those gnats engineered an ouster, planned for hours or days his demise. Yet, the meagerness of the plan never saw the light - it was Ardoren himself who made the decision to stay away. Priceless timing.

Weekends were never a question. Always somewhere, the inevitable something nothing that must be attended, or in Ardoren=s case, hosted. No matter where he was, he was the host and they were the tapeworms. Those horror stories of the guy who sees the doctor complaining of stomach pains, and it turns out some giant tapeworm forty feet long resides in his bowels...those aren’t folk tales, just ask Gandy.

Steaming hot water poured over his head, Niagara Falls before his eyes. Palms flat against the shower wall, elbows bent. The elongated pre-rinse had become a habit over the years, meditative moments of massage. This time, though, his senses seemed heightened, and they were detecting some slight tingle below his chest. One always hopes the feeling will pass. He picked up the bar of Irish Spring and soaped himself up, paying special attention to certain areas. Nice. Shampoo bubbles drifted along until the drain swallowed them up. Tingle, tingle.

Fuck! He ripped open the curtain and nearly fell on his face as he tried to make it to the toilet. And he did, sort of. Unfortunately, the vomit trailed along from the mat to the bowl and experienced a layover all over Ardoren's body. Good thing he hadn’t turned off the water in the shower.

He sat naked on the edge of his bed, wondering why his engine had locked up. Where the hell did that come from? Break time. Standing up, he looked back down to notice where he had been sitting. Nice.

The boxers tickled his thighs as they slid up and into place. Tickles and tingles. It didn’t matter much what he wore on the outside, but the silk had become his trademark, his stock in trade, as it was. When they saw the silk, they knew it wouldn’t be long.

And then the phone rang. "Yeah?"

Where and when. Matchbox at ten. See ya there.

Slow motion combs and Crest and Scope, Speed Stick and Q-tips. In this light, he looked fucking good. In any light, he looked fucking good. The picture of youth and health, rock solid and built to kill.

Had he said the Matchbox? It might be a stretch. Basically a dimly lit pizza joint, more of a kiddy palace than a testosterone zone. They’ll be there, and like it. Maybe not at first, but by midnight the word will have spread. They'll be there.

9:15. Time to get gone. Gone. The distance. From here to the door, ten feet. Hall of mirrors and dizziness, a mile, miles, and if he ran six days he might not reach it. Those strange shapes and colors a person sees when he really tries to look at the inside of his eyelids. There is Pepto-Bismol in the medicine cabinet, drink it now, drink it all.

“Hey man, I'm gonna be a little late."

Gracious pillow, you glorious fluff ball. Tingle. I will not do it again, just back off. He wiped the sweat from his nose. Lay here for a few minutes until this passes. That stuff will kick in any time now. That guy at work must’ve passed this bug along.

Damn. Have to go. Just get up and get going it’ll work itself out. Up. Here are the keys, there is the door. Not so hard, is it? Almost. Hand on the knob, right turn, now pull. Okay, steps. Hold onto the rail, one at a time, take it slow.

The smell and feel of leather woke Gandy up a little. The power of pride. Daddy had not bought this car, he had slaved for years to afford the payments. It was the personification of who he thought he was, or who they thought he was, or who he really was. Or maybe it was just a really kick-ass car. Each time he heard the deep growl of the engine upon ignition he experienced an erection. Yes, even this time. Growl.

The cockpit seemed more like a flight simulator. Tight and lights glowing from everywhere, the lumbering rumble of the exhaust. His hand found the shifter, he rocked it back and forth in neutral for a moment before moving it over and back into reverse. Slight pressure, the tires spit out gravel, and the car moved out onto the street. Tingle.

"Give it up, I'm going."

Up, over, and up, first gear lasting only a moment before down and down, a moment longer and up and over, then down and down again. Hold it, wind it out, fourth could last forever but finally way over and up and the car took flight. One could drive as fast as one wanted anytime of day on Highway 62, but this time of night there weren=t even limits on the limitless. Full of curves and banks, a true joy. Ardoren always wanted to win the pole position in the Indiana Grand Prix.

Driving might have been the most glorious part of his life. No other place on earth could a man be in total control. He knows his own skill as a driver, he knows how far he can push his vehicle. Signs guide the way, caution against danger, and set general rules for the territory. Yet, he knows they are only signs - he can choose to heed them or ignore them, he can travel the shortest route or the longest, in fact, he doesn=t even need a destination. Others are driving at the same time on the same roads, all of them in total control of their situation as well.

The glow of the Shell station lit up the evening dusk. The red plastic sign hung between the poles of the large board displaying gas prices let any passerby know that this station had Marlboros on sale for $22.50 a carton. Signs like this always reminded him of the time he bought his first pack of cigarettes for $1.39 and thought that was expensive. Today’s prices didn’t piss him off. He knew he’d smoke until the day he coughed up blood, and then he’d light up another. “When I was a kid, I had to walk barefoot ten miles through a foot of snow to catch my ride on the covered wagon that would take me to the little one-room schoolhouse in the next county.”

“Shut up, grandpa. When I was a kid I could still buy cigarettes at any store without ID and not have to mortgage my bicycle.”

He leaned against his car, one leg crossed in front of the other, his left hand firmly squeezing the trigger that allowed gasoline to be pumped into his tank. Tingle. "I am not puking on this gas pump.” His eyes followed the backside of the lady walking in to pay for her gas. Nice. Little did she know. Nah, she knows.

The pump drifted back into sight and he caught the numbers tallying the amount of gas he had pumped. The cents move so damn fast. Maybe the four and the seven just flash back and forth, that’s what it looks like.

Pretty interesting, come to think of it. Gas. For his car. Twice a week, maybe more, his tank needed filled. He drove to the gas station and got some. That easy. But there isn’t any oil within a thousand miles of here. Texas is the closest, but there isn’t much there, either. Oil comes from the Middle East, half the world away. Those Kuwaiti people pump it up from the earth, American companies buy it, it has to be transported from there, somebody has to refine it and store it, somebody has to bring it to each and every gas station in the country, and then he can buy it and not think about it at all. But he is. Certainly, no magic is involved. Things cost money and people want to be paid.

“Milk costs more than this stuff.”

“'Scuse me,” he said as a cloud of cologne wearing an expensive suit was trying to exit the building while he was trying to enter.

Passing up all the impulse items, Ardoren laid his hands on an ice cold Mountain Dew, stopped for some Tums and brought them to the counter. “Will that be all for you tonight?”

"I need a pack of Marlboro reds, too. And I had fifteen on pump seven.”

“You’re just a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Cigarettes are like, five dollars a pack now, those tobacco companies will get you coming and going. And the gas prices are just insane nowadays. You’d think the government would do something to help us poor folks out.”

Sudden realization. “Hey, ya know what? I'm done talking to you.”

The woman gazed, mouth open. “Still, I wish the government would do something about the price of gas. I'm gonna have to start walking to work. I might not be able to afford my babysitter soon.”

While Gandy thought “Here’s an idea: how about engaging in one moment of thought before saying anything,” he actually said, “Then why don’t you do both of us a favor and just stay home?”

“Fuck you, man. What’s your problem?”

“Right now I’ve three: my lateness, my upset stomach, and you.”

"$19.64.”

During the stroll back to his car, Gandy's brain considered its own behavior and then applauded itself.

Back in the driver’s seat, he popped a couple of Tums and lit a cigarette as the erection came and he headed for the Matchbox on I-64.