Suicide Theives: The Alley

Smoke hung high in the air and drifted into my lungs. The smell of old carpet, old bowling shoes and angst was palpable. I strode through the entrance aside a confident, purposeful Samantha. At the lobby I paused to admire the dusty trophy case, in it were decades-past portraits of polyester-clad champions. Their prideful smiles couldn't have been further removed from the scene ahead of us. I turned to face the lanes. I moved through the smoke and inebriated laughter like a keen anthropologist. Being only among the faces, not a part of them. I stood beside and apart from Samantha.

I introduced myself to her friends then retired to the periphery. In dress and spirit I felt in absolute contrast to the bodies around me. Wearing faded shirts of their favorite local metal bands; wallet chains fastened to stained and shredded jeans; and tattoos of spiderwebs, hemp leaves and scorpions, the roughly half dozen of them stood loosely. Always one eye on the crowds around, they never appeared completely at ease -- for good reason too. It was common knowledge on weeknights this bowling alley was harbor to individuals described here. Their deprivation was smug; respect had to be earned. I respected myself enough not to try.

I sat without notice at a sticky table colored with neon pins and balls. Samantha was different. I knew she was, but I was naive. Surely, being alone around friends she would miss her boyfriend, Ben, not yet two weeks underground. She had deep disarmingly cold eyes. Almost common if one were to look at them for only a moment. However, a long gaze, the kind we presently shared from opposite sides the table of spilled drinks and pizza scraps, gave those cold eyes a quantifiable value. We held each others' gaze. Was what I saw sadness, fear or a mournful indifference? Could she see the insecurity and youth in my eyes, or were they, as I hoped, well masked by a supportive and concerned face?

A ball crashed into the pins. We looked down the lane. "Spare," shrieked one of the girls in our group. I looked back at Samantha. She was talking to the man next to her. I listened intently and waited to join the conversation. Wondering how, or when, she will introduce me. Am I the friend, the date or simply Adam. The conversation started with sympathetic apologies and condolences to the still somewhat grieving girl across from me. It quickly digressed.

"Dude got ten months for slammin' Nick face to glass," Matt said. He thought Nick deserved the 18 stitches from Dan. I couldn't keep the whole story together. Samantha looked at me knowingly.  "After all, fucker slashed his Honda after the split with that bitch sister of his," Matt justified. "I miss that car," Sam said. I looked at her and shrugged. I couldn't piece together the names and faces and criminal records of everyone I'd met since we arrived. I didn't know these people or their lives, and I didn't want to. I knew Sam, and they meant something to her.

Another crash of the pins.
Why did we come if we didn't intend to bowl? I must have been invited to meet her friends. If not, she felt bad leaving me at the ice cream shop. Haven't decided which. But was I being presumptuous allowing myself to fantasize of a place in her life. I looked over to Samantha, about to ask if we should go buy shoes to start a game. She was looking beyond me with warning.

My chest struck the table edge in front of me. Samantha gasped. I spun around. Fists up and head down, the man who was pushed into my chair charged toward his aggressor, a stocky Native American man with long dark hair and an aged jean jacket who belong to another larger group of people several lanes down. I jumped up and took several steps back until I was alongside Samantha.

We watched as the bald-headed man who crashed into me took a long-winded swing at the Native American. The dark haired man stepped back. The punch hit the air with force and Tim lost balance. He swiftly hit the wooden floor. His friends, or my friends by way of Sam, quickly stood him up and restrained him. Darin, the dark haired man, said they should go outside to finish. Matt suggested a parking lot in Bismarck. He led Tim out to his car and pushed him into the passenger seat. Sam and I jumped into her messy Saturn. We were now in a line of several cars en route back to Bismarck to watch a fight.

Suicide Theives

That was really the first time someone close to me died by self-harming. What happened after was another strange series of events. I was close to the dead. Close as friendly coworkers are. We spent limited time together out of work: He, his girlfriend Samantha, and I.
Tall with dark blonde hair, she walked confidently through the halls of our work. She knew her duties, and she was an exceptional worker. After work she was controlled chaos; planning and cancelling without hesitation or remorse. He was like her. They complemented each other like the blades of a scissor.

I was the youngest of us three, younger still considering life experiences. Less so after the events of that evening.

One week after he shot himself in the head with an old revolver, Samantha and I made plans to get together. Ice cream and a movie. Nothing romantic or stressful. Only an easy night with a friend.

Kids were everywhere around us. Their parents sitting peacefully outside eating their vanilla cones. Lines of Friday night teens ordering dessert for their dates. Us sitting at a high-top, one waiting for the other to break the silence -- this was not the atmosphere I wanted. I cannot remember who spoke first, but discussion lead to which film we would see. Nothing at the cineplex piqued her interest.

She raised a brow reading a message on her mobile, confirming what I feeling; the air around us was stale with forced conversation and platitudes. We needed to split and quick, before the uneasiness became suffocating. I asked what she had read. She said several of her other friends were at different location. I saw in her eyes she wanted to go. I didn't press the film idea further. We left that low-key Friday night suburban scene and took nothing from it; as when we arrived nothing was given to us.

The inside of Samantha's old Saturn smelled of cigarettes and take-out food -- the evidence of both was under my sneakers on the passenger side. From my seat, I looked and her empathetically, her eyes fixed on the road as we crossed over city lines on a steel bridge spanning the cold ice-packed Missouri River. In a vehicle, did she think about him in his vehicle with the barrel to his temple? Was she thinking about me next to her, trying to take his spot? Or was she not feeling anything at all, driving only from one point to the next.
"Keep moving!", I heard the voice inside her say. She was hopeful the anger and sorrow and loneliness would give up the chase if only she could keep moving.
To my knowledge she's still moving; living life in the moment after you leave but before you arrive.

We came to a stop in a sparsely used lot under a large half-lit blinking sign atop a building that read, BOWL.

The sport of Golf

Tomorrow I will golf. I am not a golfer. I do not golf. But tomorrow afternoon will will play the game of golf. I will attempt to hit a small white ball with my old vintage wooden club. I'm told golfing is similar to fishing; scoring matters little compared to the time enjoyed in nature with friends. In that respect, I am looking forward to golf. I haven't always been this optimistic about the game. For many years the thought of playing produced a sour feeling in my stomach.

My aversion to golf no doubt stems from my dislike of perpetuating the male stereotype. In this case embodied by comedian/sitcom actor Ray Romano, who, instead of helping his wife at home or spending time with his young children, was always humorously "playing golf". I know the point was to have Raymond in a funny situation when he is gone. Or make his wife Debra funnily deal with home life alone. I suppose in looking for an identity all men can relate to they went chose golf, the hallmark of the male wasted weekend. A sport almost designed to exclude the family.

Clearly, I'm resisting a sport to not imply I am ignoring family or friends, something of which my family would never accuse me. So I find then imperative I am doing for the right reasons -- it's fun.

One could also say I'm suggesting a woman in incapable of operating a home without a male. Obviously not my opinion if you know me. I just don't like guys, as defined by popular culture. The football watching, mother-in-law hating, emotion resisting guy's guy advertisers make men think they should be... a discussion for another time.

So that's me and golf.

Thank You, Ms. Lizzie MIller

Confident, attractive, happy. Nothing describes her better.
Thank you, Ms. Miller.
OK, I know I'm more than belated on getting this out. I was just doing some research and saw it again.

The stark contrast between her photo and other common low-weight models is that she looks happy and doesn't have this look of self-justified entitled confidence. She appears sure of herself. And that, as many studies will ensure me, is more attractive than some contrived, societal given label of worth.

Like the mona lisa, in as far as enormity of social comparisons, (i know, it's a micro-scale comparison) Lizzie Miller has given women much to contemplate about themselves. To Appeal to other women? Or, to appeal to what men truly find attractive. I believe that's the dilemma. A social v. self scenario that has manifested in the form of indignation v. intelligence.

look at her thighs. look at her neck. her abdomen. then look at her genuine smile. her whole body. her healthy skin. her soft hips.

the difference is adjectives. and the adjectives give emotion, feeling.
thank you, Ms. Miller for being a conduit of emotion. Something so genuine and unfamiliar. That's unfortunate.

But may we consider ourselves fortunate, as we are all imperfect, and within that share the extraordinary, prevalent nature of self-worth. being defined only to ones self (and objective influences). as Ms. Miller is to my dream of confident, attractive, happy women everywhere I am hopeful my enthusiasm of realistic feminine ideals spreads equally and generously.