the good one

Strange situations and stranger feelings. I continuously find myself falling prey to prickly and peculiar circumstances, a perpetual victim of circumstance. The situations always transpire when I’m least expecting them to; The calm before the squall if you will, fleeting moments of equilibrium frozen in time, waiting to be shattered into a million jagged fragments at the drop of another man’s dime.

I’m quite comfortably seated on the plush leather sofa at The Good Ones house, sipping a jug of “fierce melon” and relaxing over a butt watching Intervention (mom’s anorexic, daughters a dope fiend) and jotting down some ideas for future writing exercises.

I just finished reading aloud to another human being, for the first time since I was a wannabe writer in grade school; A rather significant milestone in the progress of my current journeys as a wannabe writer. It was the first piece since starting up again that I deemed decent and readable and still remains so. It felt rather excellent. Just as good as I’d remembered; that “gotta new toy feeling,” or “gotta new car feeling, or girl or cell or…” or whatever it maybe for you and yours. It was that feeling that we all come to miss so awfully at some point or another and I certainly hadn’t expected to get that feeling from my writing. That feeling rushed through me like a warm shot and sent pins and needles all over me flipping my stomach and settling in my loins. I was left with the strange and manic energy for some minutes afterward.

 The car rolled up the winding gravel driveway, unannounced and the hid headlamps shone upon the chimney to my left. Unannounced. The Good One’s neck shot up like ET and he looked to the window. He wondered who could be visiting at such a late hour. Reluctantly, he rose and lurched a in a bit for a closer look.

I looked up from my pad and threw a glance over my shoulder, stretching to see whom the visitor may be, not noticing that I never lifted the pen from the page and it was starting forming a puddle of ink on the paper instead of a period. The look that was frozen on The Good One’s face told me that this indeed was an unexpected visitor. It was a face I hadn’t seen him don before. I’ve seen him make some contorted grimaces but nothing like this. This face he made had me worried.

We were both stuck, on pause as though Zack Morriss had called time out and stopped everything so that he could fabricate a scheme real quick. I followed suit. I wriggled uncomfortably in my seat, waiting. I waited reluctantly for the pale expressionless expression to recede from his mug. The seconds were slow, thank god. Slow enough to provide me with ample time to formulate my escape strategy, thinking I may need one because the look of irate panic never vanished from the usually calm and mellow face of The Good One.

His hand twitched, contorting slightly. Involuntary gesticulation. I still wonder what went through his head as he darted for the door. Every single muscle in my legs contracts in unison. I was fairly certain that the adrenaline produced in the last ten seconds, paired with the whisperings from the ghost of uncertainty, barely audible, yet encouraging for once, would send me hurtling headlong for the rear exit in rare and un-apprehend able form. The decision to flee came immediately, yet when I pressed down on the couch with trembling hands, so that I may rise and take flight like a locust in the night, nothing happened. Elbows buckle. All weight again dropped onto the cushion beneath my now perspiring ass; I’m not sure if it was from the nerves, the long johns, my high-blood pressure or a culmination of these things but the ass was definitely sweating, as were the palms and forehead, all profusely. I felt beads of perspiration forming on the upper-lip.

I was now frozen, just as The Good One had been some moments before. Absolutely stuck there, a statue vibrating from an overabundance of anxiety and adrenaline. After an arduous uphill struggle I manage to finally move the lump to another corner of my throat, allowing a much-needed breath to pass through the airway. I heard two sets of feet approaching fast. I enquired as to who was approaching, uncertain if I really even wanted to know.  He didn’t know. He grew pale.

As the two figures made their way up the steps and towards the front door, a new and utterly unmistakable expression settled onto “The Good Ones Face.” Another face I’d never seen him make before. This was the expression of sheer panic and desperation. He reminded my of an injured and dazed bunny trapped in headlights, but the lights weren’t coming from a car but a hungry and ravenous wolf.

He looked back in my direction, trembling with the fear. He was barely able to, in despondency, utter the abrupt words, “yo, put that shit away,” as he reached for the doorknob. I threw a glance around my general vicinity. I saw no “shit,” as he had put it, that needed hiding or putting away and I was still uncertain who was at the door and why I would need to hide anything anyway.

Teetering on the edge of a panic attack, feeling uncertain and nauseas, I reached for my pad with trembling hands and searched for my pen without trying to look as frantic as I felt. I did my best to remain calm. I tried hard to look invisible or sophisticated or calm at best as the two figures entered the house. I made no attempt at eye contact. One smelled like a man and the other smelled like a woman. I was unprepared for what came next…