"Just wait till Tomorrow"
Sep. 7th, 2010 10:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonIt’s Saturday night at the Con. Lost in the Hyatt. Separated from the gang. One moment I’m mob deep and safe in numbers. Then spun around to snap a shot off and turned back to… alone in a panic. Stripped of my posse, my escort, my ride. Left to fend for myself with a bottle of Evan Williams tucked in my satchel and a battered camera on her last legs.
That was over an hour ago.
Tried calling and texting everyone I had a number to.
Nothing.
Chased off after a few floating black top hats surfing the crowd, thinking I had spotted the Magpie… only to awkwardly find myself grabbing some Steam Punked out chimney sweep or cog goggled Jack the Ripper.
Eventually I gave up and surrendered to the crowd drift, casting myself out amongst the masquerade current and absently wondering where it might take me.
Despite the pop culture pageantry of my surroundings, the steady pulls off the bottle found my disposition sailing towards craggy shores of morose introspection. A quote crosses my lips quiet as a thought: “When I go to Chinatown I always get drunk and never get laid/ My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.”
I’m down on lower lobby over by the Centennial Ballroom. I find a semi-secluded patch of corner to draw another pull with comic surreptitiousness.
Cheap liquor burns as it splashes down a raw esophagus and I sputter a rasping cough into the top grip of my fist.
In that moment an idea sparks off my buzz.
Remembering that all of consciousness is actually a story we tell ourselves to make sense of our passage through the world, I realize that what is required here is a slight shift in my thought process. Change the story from a stream of consciousness narrative into a poem. Then, by an alchemy of whiskey and imagination, remix the poem into a song.
I didn’t even have to create one on the spot. Just use one of the ones I know from memory alone. Hit the internal shuffle and ‘force the hand of chance.’
Like this…
Another slug off the bottle, slower this time, with a hundred percent awareness and thoughts silenced so only the bitter flow of the sip registers. Zen Alcoholism. One of my ‘powers’.
When I plucked the lips free from the bottle and the fire slid slow down the throat to evaporate in the belly – the perfect track bloomed open across my mind.
Then a tap on the shoulder.
Some kid, relatively speaking, tween smooth face peeking out of a beard he doesn’t look old enough for. Frizzle fro. Ira Glasses. Green Lantern shirt. Sandals and cargo shorts.
“Hey man…” he bobs a buried chin towards the bottle, “… can I get a swig off that?”
I nod and pass him the bottle on the down low, pretending that someone here actually gives a damn.
The kid takes a long draw, head back with the bottle’s bottom pointing towards the ceiling.
When he passes it back it is under the throes of a hacking cough. He wipes his mouth. Goes to say something, then stops. He tries again and cuts himself off short. I cock a brow at him inquisitively.
A dry gulp of air and he gasps –
Maybe I've forgotten the name and the address
Of everyone I've ever known.
The kid slaps his hands over his mouth with eyes bolted Manga wide. A few seconds pass and he tries again –
It's nothing I regret
Save it for another day
It's the school exam and the kids have run away.
I take another swig off the bottle and begin walking through the lobby. As I pass by a trio of cabaret Goths they turn to me and hiss –
I would like a place I could call my own
Have a conversation on the telephone.
As I pass them by, a pair of robust pirates pick up the chorus without missing a beat –
Wake up every day that would be a start
I would not complain of my wounded heart.
In my flight I bump into a rather large and scary looking Klingon. Who grabs me by the shirt and growls –
I-iii was upset you see
Almost all the time.
He tosses me back and I go flying into the arms of a rather spectacular looking space age anime princess. She steadies me up, then spins me around as if we were ball room dancing, only to have her release me suddenly, so I go flying backwards, as she purrs –
You used to be a stranger
Now you are mine.
I catch myself in a stumble and pivot towards the escalator. As I begin to rise the descending regiment of zombies look up at me and groan –
I wouldn't even trust you
I've not got much to give
We're dealing in the limits
And we don't know who with
You may think that I'm out of hand
That I'm naive, I'll understand
On this occasion, it's not true
Look at me, I'm not you.
When I reach the top of the escalator to the main lobby, the place is stagger packed. A Dungeon party of acne scarred wizards, 120 pound barbarians and a blushing elf queen, crack their voices into a sing-song –
I would like a place I could call my own
Have a conversation on the telephone
Wake up every day that would be a start
I would not complain of my wounded heart.
Pushing past them I see a handful of police officers keeping the escalator line in order. One of them tilts his shaded face towards his shoulder radio with the other two leaning in as they monotone chant –
I was a short fuse
Burning all the time
Right as two lady Boba Fett’s lean over my shoulder to coo -
You were a complete stranger
Now you are mine.
I make my way past them as I’m flanked by a small tribe of Green, Blue, Red and Yellow Lanterns, air guitar-ing out a steady bridge.
Another long swig off my bottle as the whole floor – all the Stormtroopers, all the Federation Officers, all the Video Game avatars, all the Superheroes and Supervillains and Monsters and Imaginary Friends start dancing, in their own gloriously silly way, while roaring –
I would like a place I could call my own
Have a conversation on the telephone
Wake up every day that would be a start
I would not complain about my wounded heart.
The room stops and turns towards me as a large cardboard robot lifts me up off the ground as I do my best to get the words right –
Just wait till tomorrow
I guess that's what they all say
Just before they fall apart.
And in that moment the slap of a palm across the shoulder jolts me back. Turn around and there’s Teddy Bear, rolling his ass off, and beaming like a madman jacked up on crank.
“Hey, where’d you go?” he Chesire smiles as the closing notes dwindle into the collective murmur of a back-to-reality Hyatt. “We’ve been looking for you all night!”
He doesn’t really wait for my answer before pulling me towards the Magpie surrounded by a much larger party than the one I lost.
On the way other, to the drunken cheers and squeals of – ‘we found him’ – I pass this young lady, hunched over by the weight of an obvious loneliness. As we cross paths in that brief second, I slip her what’s left of the bottle into her slightly unzipped backpack - “Just wait till tomorrow” – I whisper and reemerge back into my night life.
That was over an hour ago.
Tried calling and texting everyone I had a number to.
Nothing.
Chased off after a few floating black top hats surfing the crowd, thinking I had spotted the Magpie… only to awkwardly find myself grabbing some Steam Punked out chimney sweep or cog goggled Jack the Ripper.
Eventually I gave up and surrendered to the crowd drift, casting myself out amongst the masquerade current and absently wondering where it might take me.
Despite the pop culture pageantry of my surroundings, the steady pulls off the bottle found my disposition sailing towards craggy shores of morose introspection. A quote crosses my lips quiet as a thought: “When I go to Chinatown I always get drunk and never get laid/ My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.”
I’m down on lower lobby over by the Centennial Ballroom. I find a semi-secluded patch of corner to draw another pull with comic surreptitiousness.
Cheap liquor burns as it splashes down a raw esophagus and I sputter a rasping cough into the top grip of my fist.
In that moment an idea sparks off my buzz.
Remembering that all of consciousness is actually a story we tell ourselves to make sense of our passage through the world, I realize that what is required here is a slight shift in my thought process. Change the story from a stream of consciousness narrative into a poem. Then, by an alchemy of whiskey and imagination, remix the poem into a song.
I didn’t even have to create one on the spot. Just use one of the ones I know from memory alone. Hit the internal shuffle and ‘force the hand of chance.’
Like this…
Another slug off the bottle, slower this time, with a hundred percent awareness and thoughts silenced so only the bitter flow of the sip registers. Zen Alcoholism. One of my ‘powers’.
When I plucked the lips free from the bottle and the fire slid slow down the throat to evaporate in the belly – the perfect track bloomed open across my mind.
Then a tap on the shoulder.
Some kid, relatively speaking, tween smooth face peeking out of a beard he doesn’t look old enough for. Frizzle fro. Ira Glasses. Green Lantern shirt. Sandals and cargo shorts.
“Hey man…” he bobs a buried chin towards the bottle, “… can I get a swig off that?”
I nod and pass him the bottle on the down low, pretending that someone here actually gives a damn.
The kid takes a long draw, head back with the bottle’s bottom pointing towards the ceiling.
When he passes it back it is under the throes of a hacking cough. He wipes his mouth. Goes to say something, then stops. He tries again and cuts himself off short. I cock a brow at him inquisitively.
A dry gulp of air and he gasps –
Of everyone I've ever known.
The kid slaps his hands over his mouth with eyes bolted Manga wide. A few seconds pass and he tries again –
Save it for another day
It's the school exam and the kids have run away.
I take another swig off the bottle and begin walking through the lobby. As I pass by a trio of cabaret Goths they turn to me and hiss –
Have a conversation on the telephone.
As I pass them by, a pair of robust pirates pick up the chorus without missing a beat –
I would not complain of my wounded heart.
In my flight I bump into a rather large and scary looking Klingon. Who grabs me by the shirt and growls –
Almost all the time.
He tosses me back and I go flying into the arms of a rather spectacular looking space age anime princess. She steadies me up, then spins me around as if we were ball room dancing, only to have her release me suddenly, so I go flying backwards, as she purrs –
Now you are mine.
I catch myself in a stumble and pivot towards the escalator. As I begin to rise the descending regiment of zombies look up at me and groan –
I've not got much to give
We're dealing in the limits
And we don't know who with
You may think that I'm out of hand
That I'm naive, I'll understand
On this occasion, it's not true
Look at me, I'm not you.
When I reach the top of the escalator to the main lobby, the place is stagger packed. A Dungeon party of acne scarred wizards, 120 pound barbarians and a blushing elf queen, crack their voices into a sing-song –
Have a conversation on the telephone
Wake up every day that would be a start
I would not complain of my wounded heart.
Pushing past them I see a handful of police officers keeping the escalator line in order. One of them tilts his shaded face towards his shoulder radio with the other two leaning in as they monotone chant –
Burning all the time
Right as two lady Boba Fett’s lean over my shoulder to coo -
Now you are mine.
I make my way past them as I’m flanked by a small tribe of Green, Blue, Red and Yellow Lanterns, air guitar-ing out a steady bridge.
Another long swig off my bottle as the whole floor – all the Stormtroopers, all the Federation Officers, all the Video Game avatars, all the Superheroes and Supervillains and Monsters and Imaginary Friends start dancing, in their own gloriously silly way, while roaring –
Have a conversation on the telephone
Wake up every day that would be a start
I would not complain about my wounded heart.
The room stops and turns towards me as a large cardboard robot lifts me up off the ground as I do my best to get the words right –
I guess that's what they all say
Just before they fall apart.
And in that moment the slap of a palm across the shoulder jolts me back. Turn around and there’s Teddy Bear, rolling his ass off, and beaming like a madman jacked up on crank.
“Hey, where’d you go?” he Chesire smiles as the closing notes dwindle into the collective murmur of a back-to-reality Hyatt. “We’ve been looking for you all night!”
He doesn’t really wait for my answer before pulling me towards the Magpie surrounded by a much larger party than the one I lost.
On the way other, to the drunken cheers and squeals of – ‘we found him’ – I pass this young lady, hunched over by the weight of an obvious loneliness. As we cross paths in that brief second, I slip her what’s left of the bottle into her slightly unzipped backpack - “Just wait till tomorrow” – I whisper and reemerge back into my night life.
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no subject
on 2010-09-08 02:41 am (UTC)that last scene was sweet with poignance...
that last scene was sweet with poignance...
on 2010-09-08 03:29 am (UTC)no subject
on 2010-09-08 12:03 pm (UTC)Glad *Con was an interesting adventure for you :)
no subject
on 2010-09-08 07:31 pm (UTC)The *Con was fantastic, my only regret is not having the energy to stay up for an entire 96 hours to absorb it all properly:)