EDDIE
Hi, my name is Eddie Banks. Well, maybe, it’s not, but it’ll do. I’ve been meaning something to tell. It’s a bit late for me to come down: the wind might blow me off. I’ve been careful before, don’t worry about me. Just look where it got us! Two fellows—and two eyes—having a tete-a-tete.
I’m going to tell you a story; hell, might even throw in a few, if the wind is right. People are so small from up here, you can even begin to think that they’re not a bunch of ignorant dirtbags, hating each other’s guts.
I’ve been on the market for a while to know it’s absurd to believe in a better tomorrow. As a marketing specialist, I’m telling the truth, and nothing but the truth, swear to God. They spell it with the capital “G” now, figures. People have always been afraid of him. Who can blame them? Doubt, you can say that your conscience is clear when you’re summoned up there to answer for all the sins you have committed. But what is a sin? We can go on and on, and that’s not why we’re here.
The gale is strong—the balance may shift only so much in my favour, so I’d rather I kept it short, so hold your breath. Before you rush to judge, think of what you’d do if you’d had enough.
How could I have enough? would you ask.
Well, I can’t answer that, and I guess you know who can.
We’re past judgement, is what I mean. Look in the mirror and think of the time you last visited your gran before your mouth starts working the magic “It’s not a way out,” spell. Please, it’s worn out through the years.
I suppose, we can start off with the time I went to high school and graduated with honors, throwing the hat up in the air at day and throwing up in the sink at night. A good one, that. I’m not usually the one to go for more, but on that day, somebody I’d been in love with for the better part of 10 years, broke my heart.
We didn’t talk much, because I used to be a tight-lipped idiot. It took me exactly one monologue in the crapper to ask her for a dance.
We moved slowly, cheek to cheek, hot from the air of the prom, while I was spinning in my head all the intention of going away wherever she would.
She bailed on everything and stayed, got into a car with that handsome mean-faced guy that sold weed, and drove into the sunset. She was the brightest head in the class, and now has two beautiful kids, and a beating cheater, whose guts she hates. She looks older than my boss.
Right after you whisper “Loser,” we’ll roll into the college days—the best days of the life, they say. Might be true. What do we do there? You take some time to answer that, while I’ll tell you about something else. I did graduate with honors—yes, yes, don’t get up. The life was just waiting to begin. They write these on tombstones sometimes—I’ve definitely seen it somewhere. A fledging, ready to fly, met with society that did its best to prove you’re wrong.
Then who’s right? I’d ask.
They’d shrug. We’ll call you.
And then you take what you can get, browsing those magazines or Craig’s, whatever, to score a little in order not to bottom feed. You know what? It works and even pays off—that’s what matters. What you do, though—does it matter? Alright, it does, you’d say, but does it matter to you? I don’t imagine you’re one of those people who get back home, pour a glass of red, kick on their favorite Celine Dion track, and think about what a great life they have. If you are one of them, pardon me. But think for a second: is there anyone else?
Yeah, I guess, it’s just me, standing up here, with the heavens so close, muttering something, throwing caution to the wind. Taking the last leak here would be impossible, if you know what I’m saying.
Roll on three—when all’s said and done, we have people. Yes, all those faces that you look into, but never know what’s behind. My friends tell me I think too much, but when I don’t, they tell me to think harder. I always tip my head and say thanks for the good advice. Mom and dad watched the TV, and it told them what to think. At least, someone got it figured.
Then my folks split. It wasn’t harsh. My daddy took it hard, though. We didn’t talk much; didn’t even get to say goodbyes. He said what he had no shrink or pills could cure, before we found him in his apartment. I had to bail on everything that day. Every day as I looked in the mirror, I realized I resembled him more and more, and that’s what makes it worse. I don’t remember our last conversation, and the sound of his voice is strange to me—plays wrong in my head.
You want an anecdote? Imagine: one of your students just up and storms out when you announce an important quiz. Think a minute, a real one. You’d probably ask what’s wrong; but that’s my guess. You tell him off and say shit like that happens again, he’s going to be expelled. That’s right, your class, and pride, were hurt. But you didn’t ask.
And I didn’t tell, but I was a little hurt, too.
And all this—a sob story for the youth who think they’re special. Perhaps.
As for sexual life, as most of them like to pin those Freudian tabs on us, it was fine. The bed squeaked alright—my wife and I rode it, like a red-eyed cowboy on the speed.
Dear sweet Annie… you’re reading this and sobbing, but I tell you to wipe them and zip the bird. Remember how we said it? When we thought we’d stay young forever?
No, no, I mean it—stop it. You’re better than this.
Remember when we went to that city in Cali, where you always wanted to go as a kid, and parked by a local restaurant kind of place? The manager went berserk, saying he’d have it towed. His face and that mustache are right in front of my eyes now, like when we came there to dine the next day and found all kinds of insects in the soup. Margaritas were on the house; the gift kept on giving. Oh Annie, his fat fingers trembled with fury while he was serving.
We were so bad, weren’t we?
You’re out somewhere there now, and the kid’s all grown. Does she ask after me? Don’t tell, I don’t want to know.
To live to die, to die to live. I suppose, I am just a little tired. There’s still time to step off, as I’m hearing those sirens and see the little twinkly lights from below, just like when we looked with your grandpa’s telescope at those red beacons on the rooftops.
Easy way out—hell, yes, it’s not. Losing everything to a psychopath, saying goodbye to everything you know, to find yourself in a puddle. Scary to think that my people will be hated for the generations to come. I can’t even speak the tongue I talked to my mother when I made my first steps.
Will this ever be enough?
The wind is strong up here, enough to flutter my tie, as if it were a kite. It’s getting cold now; but the view from up here—it truly is a marvel. I wish I could have you here, with me; I wish I had you to talk to.
Someone who’d just nod and listen; just nod… and listen.
What do they say? “One step for a man…”
I’m just messing with you. Do me a favour and tell yourself you are beautiful today.
Signing off,
E. B.
23.08.2022