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- I've often wondered what the outside world looks like to a fish in an aquarium. Or better yet, what if fish were intelligent creatures that could speak their own native language? With what prose would they express their dilemma, being forever trapped in the glass prison of fake ocean flora and dollar-store knick-knacks?
It's not hard to imagine them peering out through the glass with their sad eyes, perpetually darting around with fish tank fever. Or to imagine seeing them trapped, weaving through plastic rocks in the cell of a twenty-gallon tank with the same cellmates and the same pitter-patter sound of the bubble jet until they died. It would be cruel and bitter loneliness.
But, if we didn't know how to speak "fish" we would never know how they really felt; they could only commiserate amongst themselves. Without a way to communicate with us, they would have to abandon all hope of ever leaving behind their legacy. We would never realize their hopes and dreams.
My life has felt just like that, one big aquarium since my birth in 1952. My native language is "fish". And like the fish, it seems no bipedal speaks my language.
I was born a prodigy, however. Most people couldn't accomplish what I had done at the age of eight in their entire lives. At the precocious age of eight, I was partially responsible for Kennedy's election in 1960. The Civil Rights Movement, the Apollo Program, even The Doors, none of this could have happened without me. And the tragedy is that I didn't get even a smidgen of acknowledgment for it, not even a pat on back.
All I've ever wanted out of life is a little recognition, plain and simple. I'm simply not credited for any of my work, and when I complain to anyone about it I'm completely ignored. I'm not saying that I want wealth; hell, I'm made of money. The child prodigy Mozart was never wealthy either; everyone knows he died in a pauper's grave. What I'm saying is that they at least recognized him for who he was. They realized he had talent at an early age. His father even carted him around before emperors and kings to toot his little clarinet, at the age of thirteen. As the old saying goes, you'd have to live under a rock not to know who Mozart is, even if you hate his music.
But not me. I'll be the Unknown Soldier. My name will never go down in the archives of history.
My life has been just one big, paradoxical extreme to the next. Even since my birth people have used me, discarded me like a bedpan, then begged for me to come back the next day. It seems that my friendship with them is only ephemeral, changing hands like a game of speed rummy. I feel like some drug they use to make themselves feel happy, only to be quickly let down and forgotten with the same fervor as when they first sought me. Then, next week they're dragging me back to their houses for drinks again.
I've never even been called by my real name; no one's ever even asked me for it. They only have nicknames for me and it's never the same. That's the paradox; everyone knows me but no one knows me. People need me, but they hate me. I'm unique, but I'm also like the Xeroxed copy of a hundred million anonymous faces. I'm just a phantom helper, a ghost without a title, a nobody. And this is my dilemma.
My life has never gotten any better. In fact, life paid me back for all of my philanthropy like this: I was held hostage on my twentieth birthday in a cockroach-infested motel in Indianapolis with a Vietnam vet named Jeff. This was one of the worst moments in my life I can recall.
He was a proper thug, living off of prostitutes, whiskey and coke. Jeff would keep me prisoner until he died. There was no escape. He had a gun. The only thing I could do was think of all of the other terrible things that had happened that year, to make myself feel better about my own circumstance. John Lennon was shot and killed; the Led Zeppelin drummer John Bonham choked on his own puke cocktail and Ronald Reagan was elected president. But this kind of therapy never worked for me before, and I thought at that time, why should it work now? You can't wallow in someone else's misery to forget about your own. And there was no Zen meditation that was going to save me. I was Jeff's prisoner and there was nothing I could do about it.
That is, until he was eighty-sixed by a massive heart attack, clutching his chest and falling beneath the burning pink, neon motel sign, lying there motionless, as if he were painted there. Next thing I know the cops were raiding the room and escorting me to the county precinct.
I wasn't there very long. Officer Lockwood held me for a few hours then turned me loose. They didn't even listen to my story, about how the psycho abducted me from the 7-11 down the road at gunpoint. They didn't even take me in for questioning. Officer Lockwood gave me a silent tour of the facility and then dismissed me as if he'd never seen me before, without even so much as a word. I felt like the phantom again. But I wanted to leave that cement and steel dungeon as soon as I could anyway. That was the only time in my life in which it was an asset to be a nobody. In spite of all I had done throughout my life, no one knew me. That day was the only time I cherished my anonymity.
As I mentioned earlier, my life has always seemed oscillate between completely opposite extremes. My circle of friends has always changed from day to day. One day I could be hanging out with the most notorious gangsters (I once spent the weekend with Erminio Capone in Chicago), and the next day I would be at a gala dinner laughing with senators drunk with double entendre jokes. It was a catholic church and the Eucharist one week, and the occasional prostitute the next. My life couldn't be anymore double-sided. And what made it worse is that everyone pretended not to know me, brushing me aside and stuffing me in corners after they'd used me like a cheap hooker for whatever they could get out of me.
On my fortieth birthday I wanted to commit suicide. I grew tired of swimming in circles and peering out of the tank at the world, knowing I could never be a part of it. If I couldn't find acceptance or even a modicum of affirmation, then I reasoned it just wasn't worth it anymore. You can only give so much charity. You can only help so many students produce their films and become famous. You can only help so many presidents get elected and do so much for humanity until you hit a solid wall.
Year after year of dealing with unthankful crowds gnawed at my heart. I would have even been happy if they showed the utmost disdain for me and for my work, instead of just ignoring me. At least then I would have actually felt real. But I would never be graced with such kindness as animosity. Everyone has their limits and on January 9th, 1992, I had reached mine.
The fact is I could never hurt myself. Not because I'm afraid, but because I'm crippled in a way. I would have ended it a long time ago if I had the capacity to do it. I've eavesdropped on a thousand conversations that have centered on unspeakable crimes of murder, drugs, molestation, and the dirtiest secrets ever told, simply because I was crippled. They never acknowledged my presence, as if I were invisible. They even referred to me in third person, as if I were an ottoman or some other random piece of furniture in the room. If they knew I had been listening and understood everything, they would have done the job for me. Then I wouldn't have to search for a Kervorkian to finish me off.
I'm not sure exactly how many of you have been in my position. The overwhelming desire to end it all without the capacity to do it is the same as living in your own personal hell. But I've finally accepted it. You can eventually learn to accept even hell if you know it's your only option. But the truth is I haven't really come to terms with my predicament. I'm only bidding my time, longing for that day to come when I'll be snuffed out, burned, ripped up and gone for good.
But recently, I've had an epiphany of sorts, a self-realization. Not that I don't want to die; I do indeed. But I've come to realize that humanity is not perfect and neither am I. What I have been doing my entire life is blaming other people for my personal problems. Most of the problems I have had stem from the pure naivety of humanity. After pondering this for quite some time I've decided that I can almost forgive them. Presently, I can offer no more than an "almost", but at least it's a step in the right direction.
Also, I've been comparing myself to other people in a display of childlike one-upmanship, inflating my ego by bragging about my accomplishments, my super nova résumé. Maybe I have done this to compensate for my secret low self-esteem caused by lack of recognition? But no one wants to sit and listen to someone toot his own horn and so I will cease with the conceited ranting. I can't expect people to acknowledge my every achievement. And to my defense I can only add this: I admit that I'm the most irritating and pretentious one-hundred-dollar bill you will ever meet, so please be easy on me. I'm not the root of evil.
- Harvey Rodriguez doesn’t frown or protest as the manager fires him, her bleach-blond hair bouncing as she defines and gesticulates the reasons for his termination.
He casually unties his blue frock and throws it into the hamper behind the convenience store’s grimy counter. The counter is etched deep with doodles, and initials and whatnots, long abandoned and forgotten by their owners.
“I’m sorry, but this is the third time this month that the drop’s been short,” Marissa says, tonguing the remains of a dark green vegetable stuck between her teeth.
She looks away from him, counting money from an envelope. She finally looks up and says, “Someone has to go, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.”
Harvey doesn’t mention his perfect attendance record for the last six months here at Barker’s Stop-N-Go. More importantly, he doesn’t mention that he didn’t steal the money and that the bank drop for his last shift was actually a few dollars over. There were plenty of other likely culprits who should have been fired instead of him. Her boyfriend Brian, the felon with a mile-long track record of theft and aggravated larceny, just for one example.
“It’s okay,” he says, walking toward the clock with his manila timecard.
She snatches the timecard from his hand and says, “I’ll take care of it, good luck.”
A brief, cool silence wells between them. He begins to open his mouth, but instead smiles and walks out of the door. The doorbell chimes with his departure. He shoves his hands in his pockets and buries his chin in his gray hoodie, as if it were cold. The wind rustles his shiny-black shoulder-length hair, as the sidewalk seems to propel him down the street to his apartment.
***
“You’re joking…right?” says Carlos.
“No.”
Carlos leans back in the tan, leather sofa and stubs out his cigarillo. His hair is dark and long like Harveys and they are often mistaken for brothers. He props up his feet on Harvey’s shiny, mahogany coffee table. Little flakes of dried mud thread the lining of his boot soles and fall out intact, on the surface of the coffee table.
“Of course you’re not,” Carlos says, shaking his head.
“It was bound to happen,” Harvey says.
Harvey rolls over and curls up on his black, metal futon and clicks on the television. His eyes glaze over.
“Oh my god. You always say that. How many jobs have did this to you in the past two years?”
“Hmm, don’t know. You heard back from that diner?” says Harvey.
“Don’t change the subject on me.”
“Okay.”
Carlos sighs and lets his feet drop, littering the polished, wood floor with more clumps of crud from his boots. He sighs at Harvey and lights another cigarillo.
“No,” Carlos says, as he exhales a big cloud of blue-gray smoke toward Harvey.
“What?”
“I want you to change the subject,” says Carlos.
“Huh?”
“I want you to haggle me about my jobs.”
Harvey clicks off the television. He rolls over to Carlos and says, “Okay, how is your job going? And have you heard back from that diner yet?”
“Harvey, you’re really something.”
“What?”
“I haven’t had a job for two years dude. I haven’t had a job since I’ve lived with you.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t say oh.”
“Okay.”
“Jesus, say whatever you want,” Carlos says, lighting the edge of the cigarillo box with his Zippo. Green-bluish flames slowly rise from one of its corners.
“But you just said not to say it.”
The flames rise higher, engulfing the entire cigarillo box. Carlos gasps and lets it drop on the seat of the leather couch. Harvey and Carlos watch the box for a time until it finally smolders out, leaving a charred square mark on the nice leather.
“I should have had it upholstered with that stain resistant stuff,” says Harvey.
Carlos laughs. Harvey rolls back over and faces the television. He clicks it on again.
“Dude,” says Carlos.
“What?”
“I just told you that I’ve basically been sponging off of you for the last two years and I just burned a hole in your fifteen-hundred-dollar leather sofa.”
“Ah, don’t worry. You’ll find a job.” Harvey says.
“No, I won’t. I don’t like to work and I want to sponge off you for the rest of my life.”
“Oh yeah?”
“For fuck sake, grow some fucking balls will you!”
Harvey clicks off the television, but continues staring away from Carlos, watching the blank screen.
“What are you getting at,” Harvey says, still staring at the blank screen.
“I just burned a hole in your sofa and you blame yourself for not getting a stain resistant one, like it would matter anyway. My point is dude, you never take initiative. And you let people walk all over you and then you blame yourself. You’re like some kind of eternal scapegoat.”
“Hmm, you think so?”
“When you worked for that oil change place and your boss’s wife got mad because he spent every weekend at the bar, he blamed it on you. And you just sat there and took the rap for it, and didn’t even stand up for yourself when he fired you just to make her happy. And this is just one of the many examples.”
“She didn’t believe him.”
“Of course she didn’t, but that’s not the point. She wanted to believe him. People don’t want to believe it’s their fault and they’ll look for anyone or anything to blame for their misery. And for some strange reason you always seem to show up in the nick of time. You’ve been like this since I’ve known you.”
Harvey rolls over and faces Carlos.
Carlos continues, “My dad always said society has always been built on two classes of people, the oppressors and the downtrodden. It’s been keeping the earth spinning since Cain and Abel.”
Harvey says, “It’s the only thing I'm good at.”
Carlos picks up an empty cigarillo box from underneath the coffee table, and lights a corner of it. He says, “No, you’re not good at it. With all due respect, even Jesus got something out of it.”
Blue-green flames engulf the box, filling the air with its pungent odor. Harvey strains a soft sigh from his lungs. Carlos drops the box on the coffee table. They watch it burn.
“So burning down my apartment will make me more assertive?”
“You should start a business,” says Carlos.
The box finally smolders out, gray and black flakes of ash litter the table.
Carlos continues, “You should put an ad in the paper and say something like this, is your wife haggling you about a drug problem, did you screw up at work? Don’t take the rap, call me. No problem is too large for me to become a patsy. Reasonable rates, call me at…”
“You were always creative, Carlos.”
Carlos’s eyes widen, a smile plays at the corner of his lips.
“Dude, no, this would be cool! I mean some people might think it's a joke. But who knows, maybe someone will actually call. Would you be down for it?”
“I guess.”
“Cool, just give me some money so I can put the ad in the paper.”
Two weeks go by without a call. One morning the cordless phone rings. Carlos answers it.
“Was your ad a joke?”
“Huh? Oh, the ad. No, no, it’s for real.”
“I don’t want to talk over the phone, can you meet me downtown at the bridge?”
“Sure.”
Carlos puts the phone back on the receiver and nudges Harvey, who is snoring, fast asleep on his futon.
***
Days turn into weeks, and Harvey slowly gathers clients. One week he was the alleged supplier of Percocets and Oxycontin for the husband of an embittered wife. It didn’t solve his drug addiction but it bought him enough time to find another excuse. The husband told his wife that Harvey had been arrested and that their troubles were over. Harvey was paid to call her and confirm this, and to apologize for turning him on to the pills.
Another week he allegedly, accidentally burned down a coffee shop so the owner could collect insurance on his failed business. Harvey received a hefty chunk of the claim, less Carlos’s cut, of course.
One of the last assignments, before the calls started petering off, was to take the rap for a better who had welched on a horse race outside of Louisville. Days before the actual race he had already planned on running if he lost and made all of the arrangements with Carlos, who furnished the man with a duplicate of Harvey’s driver license.
“Dude, you’re like Jesus, except with a bank account,” Carlos says, arranging a new, red, leather sofa. The old leather sofa is gone.
Harvey lies on the futon and clicks the television on.
“Dude, aren’t you tired of that old rusty futon.”
“No.”
“You should live a little, you’ve got plenty of cheddar now. Who would’ve ever thought you could turn blame and guilt into a business?” says Carlos.
Carlos plants his feet on the new, glass coffee table and continues, “Wait, organized religion has already been doing that for thousands of years. I guess I'm not as original as I thought.”
Carlos pulls out the last cigarillo in the box and lights it. He says, “I thought you were going to pick up some things from Barker’s.”
“Oh, sorry.”
Harvey lifts himself off the futon and grabs his hoodie. He pulls it over his head, tangling his long hair in a heap. He grabs his keys and pats down his pockets. He looks to Carlos.
“Here man,” Carlos says, reaching into his pocket. He throws his own wallet to Harvey.
Carlos says, “I think it’s my turn anyway. But don't lose my wallet, and don't spend too much.”
Marissa looks up from counting money as she hears the bells on the door chime, and stares Harvey down. Brian peeks around the corner from a back room where the safe is kept. Harvey wanders the aisles, looking at everything and nothing.
Finally, he comes to the counter. Marissa rings up his hot chocolate and two boxes of cigarillos and tosses them on the counter. She pulls out a plastic bag and tosses it at Harvey and says, “Bag it yourself, I’m busy.”
Harvey leaves the bag on the counter and walks out. He walks behind Barker’s and unravels the cellophane on the box, and pulls out a cigarillo. He pats his pockets for a lighter and realizes he doesn’t have one. Brian comes out of the metal door next to him, smoking a cigarette.
He looks at Harvey and hands him a lighter.
“Thanks.”
“That’s the least I could do for you,” Brian says, chuckling.
Harvey takes a drag and gags. He coughs, and coughs, his eyes dripping with tears. Brian laughs at him. Suddenly, Brian looks down the road, up to the sky. Billows of black smoke swirl as high as he can see.
“Wow, look.”
Harvey stops coughing and looks up, his eyes watering less now. He drops his coffee and boxes of cigarillos and dashes toward the smoke. Red and orange flames lick the walls, completely engulfing his apartment. Embers pop this way and that way, like shooting stars. Someone screams from inside.
Harvey dashes toward his front door, which creaks and falls forward when he is five feet away. A gust of fire and wind shoot out from behind it. Harvey falls to the ground. He quickly pulls himself up and tries to run in, but the smoke is too thick to see and it is too hot. He coughs and trips on something, stumbling on top of the burning door.
Sirens wail in the distance and a dark car with tinted windows peels off down the road.
Two months later Harvey stands behind a counter and rings up an order, smoking a cigarillo. His hair is cut short and slicked back with a nice sheen.
The customer, a young brunette woman with a Monroe piercing says, “So, are you finally acclimating to the country of California?”
Harvey chuckles, and bags her carton of cigarettes. He hands her the bag and says, “Well, it’s definitely different than Kentucky. I think the women here are prettier too.”
“Wow, you're cute and not a bad liar. You'll be right at home here in LA...” she says, smiling and looking at the nametag pinned to his frock, “...Carlos.”
“You like Shoe Gazer music? Me and some friends are going to hit Hotel Café this weekend,” Harvey says.
She smiles, and scribbles her number on the back of the receipt. She hands it to him.
“Maybe,” she says, still smiling.
