*****
'Come. Just answer the door. Answer the fucking door ... !'He mutters under his breath. He did not like standing here, like some common ruffian fresh in off of the boat. New York has a habit of doing that to people. Even if you happened to live here most of your adult life, it always is the quintessential melting pot. No matter for being away for six YEARS or six HOURS. It's like being thrown into a cement mixer ... insulting, and at the same time ... WONDERFUL. Almost like ... drinking a Coke.
That's right.
Like drinking a Coke. Doesn't matter if you're Brad Pitt or Bradley Watanowski. You drink a Coke, and it's the same Coke that anyone else drinks. Whether you happen to be rich or poweful, or a bum living off of handouts on the side of the road. A Coke is a Coke ... is a Coke. No level of influence nor amount of mone will get you a different Coke. Everyone drinks the same. Period. And that's New York.
Like drinking Coke in a cement mixer with other people drinking Coke.
Well.
For the most part.
Oh sure, some people are better off in some ways. But that's LIFE. Everyone will do according to his or her own abilities. No more and no less. Q just happened to bit a tad bit luckier ... a tad bit better off. It allows him, unlike a lot of other Joe Blows, to fly from San Diego to New York City within an hour's notice ...
... to do what?
To stand and stare at some locked, off-white apartment door?
...
... yeah. Pretty much.
Actually, he can't be too upset. The entire situation he found himself mired in is ENTIRELY his doing. Willing to bite the bullet on this one, this tail couldn't be pinned on any other ass but his own. And really? He truly feels like an ASS. That's why he stands in some apartment complex in the heart of New York City. Some mid-level building with stained yellow wallpaper and floors and walls that looked near to crumbling. Almost like a cookie dunked in a glass of milk.
He hates standing out like this.
Like the riff-raff.
He taps his foot impatiently, the ancient floorboards creaking under his weight. Wondering internally how she could possibly call this place '
home', it boggles his mind ... somehwere beyond the grasp of his faculties. But he couldn't really say too much. He lives in San Diego ... far away from the people who ...
... ONCE cared for him.
'Alexis, come ON! You're in there. I KNOW you're in there. You have to be. YOU HAVE TO BE IN THERE TO TAKE ME BACK!'. He presses his face up against the door, trying his damnedest to peer through the small peephole ... only trying to catch a glimpse of movement, or hear noise of some kind. SOMEthing. He stops slowly .... free hand pressed lightly to the door. Letting it slide down the smooth paint, feeling every bump ... every crevice that his fingers find.
He looks down wistfully at the small scuff mark at the bottom of the doorframe ... slow memories beginning to trcikle into his thought-stream.
'We've ... had some good times here, hey? Like that Halloween party where you bet me 20 dollars that I couldn't wear those ghastly high-heeled shoes all night? You were so MAD when I walked in them all night. WithOUT tripping, too. Well ... except when you pushed me against the door. Broke the heel 'cause of you. Such a sore loser ... '. He cuckles gently to no one in particular ... grip tightening as he leans back.
'Or your birthday bash, where you went dressed as Lady Liberty? My god I never wanted to be American before that night. Haven't wanted to be SINCE then, for that matter. But that night? I felt absolutely patriotic escorting Lady Liberty to her awaiting public.'. He lets a flicker of a smile cross his features before just as quickly fading into the obscurity from whence it came. In its' place stands a sorrowful, melancholy that would have the most hardened heart sniffling. And the worst part?
It isn't simply Q's typical apathetic grimace.
Genuine sadness and hurt mars his otherwise remarkable features.
'You know ... one of the hardest things to do I'm life is to admit wrong. No strings attached, no concessions. Just plain out admit that you're WRONG about something. Our frafile egos can't handle or understand that maybe, just MAYBE ... we don't know something. And as all-important, all-knowing creatures ... this is entirely unacceptable. And so we make excuses. Bend the reality to make it fit OUR truth. And life goes on.'. He attempts to mimic a smile, but it comes across as pathetic and simpering. He can feel its' weakness, and it sickens him. So he strikes it, casts it away. Better to be a man and be mournful than to indulge cowardice and appear happy under false pretense.
He's on the verge of tears. Choking them back. But he won't do it. He will not allow himself the cathartic tears that are rallying an offensive against his ocular barriers.
'I'm sorry, you know. I ... never meant to treat you the way that I have. It was completely WRONG of me. Wrong to expect the world to give me what I wanted ... and then have you pull the pieces back together when all others disappointed me. Everyone has let me down, from the lowest party-goer to the highest in their glass spires. In one way or another, I have been let down.'
'You've never hurt me, never disappointed me. And in return, I've let YOU down. I can't believe I've been so ... so stupid, so BLIND! You've always been there for me, even when I deserved to be alone and miserable. I'm here to tell you ... that I was wrong. And I have come to assure you that I will pay for my mistakes. We all have to own up to them sooner or later, and now is MY turn. It's a hefty fine too ...'. Squeezing his eyes shut, he can feel his voice tremble. He didnlt want this. Never in a million years ...
'I desrve to be alone, like some pathetic ghost of a man. But in my pain, you've still GIVEN. Given me a great gift, in your absence ... given me a reason. A reason to change, to WANT to change. A reason to not be what I was. A reason to ... I don't know! Take life more seriously, to NOT take things for granted. No one's going to give me what I want unless I show my intentions first. '. The rivulets of heart roll down each cheek unchecked. Thank God the makeup he wears is a good brand, otherwise he'd look an absolute FRIGHT on the flight home.
He drops the item in his left hand, finding that he doesn't have the strength to hold it any longer. It's weight has become too much for him to shoulder any longer. The blood is pounding through his temples, creating a deafening roar that he can barely hear over. It was getting brutal.
' ... I'm sorry all right?! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! No amount of apologizing will undo the past months of pain that I've put you through! No amount of begging or pleading or crying is going to change a damn thing or to open up to me as you once did ... and that hurts the fucking most!!!'. He stops ... and realizes that he's still talking and yelling and pouring his heart out to a door that is locked.
Inanimate.
And never to open.
Heaving sobs continuing to rip through his chest and spill out through murmuring lips, he shakes his head and begins to rub his eyes furiously as he pivots on his heels. No amount of rubbing or smudging would spare him from the tingling emotions that have cascaded down his cheeks over through his mouth. He looks over to the staircase ... the one that had been so eager to accep this ascension ... and sees how lonely it is now. How ominous. Foreboding. And suddenly, he didn't wish to travel that path.
He casts an eye back over his shoulder, soundlessly intoning a goodbye as he begins to march.
Leaving the bouquet of dandelions to rot. The small wisps of nothing to blow away in the gentle breeze of the air.
First step down.
Always the hardest.
But by the time you reach the bottom, like always ... the heart and soul are calloused. Covered up in a nigh-impenetrable carapace that even the strongest of attacks would be hard-pressed to breach. And thus again ... internal worlds mirror external. As he reaches the bottom of the seemingly endless stairway, Q stops at the bottom landing and fumbles in his small bag for his phone. Pulling the Motorola Q out, fingers clutching defltly at the thin thing, he wakes it up and moves to his messages. None to be read.
... only one to compose.
*****
The flight home is generally uneventful.
A loud snoring can be heard from several rows back.
A baby crying..All the cliches one might find in any given movie, book or sitcom. Despite it all, Q happens to be the antithesis of the normal protagonist ... fast asleep ... Coke can laid sideway supon his tray. Head propped against a soft pillow from home. Upper body sheltered under a warm fleece blanket, he sleeps the sleep of the dead. And somewhere from the depths of his emotionally raw mind, the situation before him begins to play out in a dreamscape.
A dreamscape so far away from reality ... and yet, too near all the same.
Into his dreams, he carries with him the knowlesge of his next match. Against Jake Norton. Jake Fucking Norton. It sounds so perverse to say it thusly, but it is Norton's own self-title. Jake Fucking Norton sounds way too important to be so casually tossed onto the failed catchphrase pile. Mustve taken a long time to pick some that kept him afloat. He wouldn't deny him his security. He had heard many worse, to be truthful.
As exhausted as he is, Q knows that in the current ... in the PRESENT ... he is not ready for Jake Fucking Norton. He couldn't possibly find himself ready in two days to do battle with what appears to be a 'grizzled veteran'. Someone who has been toiling. Sweating. BLEEDING for his profession for a good while. He has that look. That veil of swagger. The self-knowledge that he would eb ready for anything.
Anything inside that ring, that is.
Q, quite honestly, wasn't ready. Wouldn't be ready for a while. If it isn't readily apparent, the only thing that keeps looping through his mind as his body rejuvenates ... is an image of Jake Fucking Norton standing over his fallen and mangled body, limbs twisted in a variety of odd angles ... angles he had never seen before. He isn't afraid, lest you think that.
No fear. Q is not afraid of anything that can happen inside that ring. He is only concerned for ... his image. His likeness. He didn't really want to go back to that l
Sometimes he wins ... sometimes he loses . Sometimes he causes a scene and SOMETIMES he doesnt' image. It simply wouldn't behoove his personal life, nor alleviate his woes. Cofindence is key. Always has been. And Q is that.
Outside the ring, that is.
Inside? Not so much so. For as much as he can spew that he doesn't give a damn (
he really doesnt), the fact remains that he can no longer ignore what obviously is needed to survive. Then, and ONLY then ... will Q feel confident enough to take on any and all comers. Until then?
.... well.
He definitely isn't ready for Jake Fucking Norton.
*****