Freefall

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This story is about numbness. Detachment. Moral ambiguity.

Submitted: May 25, 2014

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Submitted: May 25, 2014

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So the first thing I’m going to say is no, I don’t regret shit. In fact, I’ll gladly accept attempts at making me feel anything. Detachment is a remedy-turned-disease. It got me through these goddamn questions- you’d think a suburban youngin’ would shit his pants seeing those inferior to Law and Order red and blue sirens, but I wasn’t feeling it. 

“Michael, son, if you’re over eighteen, possession charges will most likely stick.”

“You’re not my father. I’m over eighteen.”

The root cause of all of this can be traced back to my internship at the top floor of City Hall, working in an executive office for the municipal government. I got in paid in zero dollars and people commending the trivial, 8th grade-level work that I did, like they owed me for a great orgy I had given them the night before. I worked with an executive secretary, who began to open up to me about her horrendously boring life two weeks into my internship.  There’s a volume of things fucked up about the life you live if you feel comfortable confiding to somebody like me.

House remodelling. 

 “Our walls have been a light burgundy for the past ten years. It’s time for a change, so we’re trying to find good painters. We’re thinking of repainting the house a peach, and my son’s room a creamy white”

“That’s nice.”

Her new fur coat.

“This coat cost me around a thousand dollars about ten years ago, but it was a good investment. You should look into one.”

“Yes. It’s warm. Very nice.”

And inside I’m thinking, lady. Half the time, I’m worried that I won’t have enough pitch money for some self-prescribed medicinal marijuana. I do not care about your coat.

When she wasn’t busy telling me about things that made me think that I would probably bust out of satisfaction if I unscrewed the top of my head and watched it being fed to a pack of piranhas, she replied to maybe two e-mails a day out of the several hundred that came into the office. This 55-year-old lady was just cruising by, making almost a hundred grand a year. She got to drive around a Mercedes SUV and have a cottage and two phones.

Sitting here with my double D mounds of work, volunteering obligations, and two part-time jobs, I’m thinking okay then, bitch.

I decided if she can do next to nothing and a afford 5-bedroom house, then there’s enough money in the world to go around. It’s waiting---naked, smirking, and seductive--- for me to come get it.

I thanked the universe for the early enlightenment, and got up in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon workday.

“I can’t intern here anymore. I’ll pick up my cheque tomorrow.”

“Micha—“

I closed the glass door behind me, and left those walls, the ones were the epitome of mundane. Cringe and put your own finger down your throat until you pass out mundane. I made the deviousness in my smile apparent. There’s no cheque.

I felt liberated. People will tell you that peace is silence and crisp blue water, but you only know true inner peace until you feel serenity wash over you amidst the faces of tired, busy, and ultimately purposeless drones. I suppressed every feeling I felt, and let the blankness take over me. I thought, what next. How do I get to the point of being able to roll a Benjamin Franklin into a joint and feeling no ways.

Fast forward to a few days later, and I’m inside D’s house. This guy never fucking cleans. Two mosquitos are copulating atop his laptop screen, and it smells like a concoction straight out of Hitler’s asshole inside—old marijuana, stale water, and fake cheese—this would induce queasiness in normal people, but nope, I am tranquil. I inhale and thank questionable entities for the ability to smell, and I swear I am Siddhartha Gautama reincarnate. D is a dirty, dingy five-year old child trapped in a twenty-year old body. You should have seen this idiot’s pupils dilate the way they did when he found what looked like month old cake in the crevices of his fridge.

“Holy fuck. I forgot I still had this. The world loves me”

“Or maybe it hates you and wants you to die of a heart attack. You know, so you can go to hell and repent for your sins faster”

“I laced your joint last week.”

“Fuck you, you immoral lanky asshole piece of shit. I want to talk to your supplier.”

“Why?”

“Why does it matter. Give me the number.”

“Tell me why first.”

“You fucking owe me,”

So he gave me the number. Zoooooooooom. Knock Knock. Hey. Who Are You. I’m Skinny Pete’s Boy. You sure you want to do this? Yes. Blah blah blah.

And just like that, boom. My income went from $0 to a few grand a week. God, the peace of mind money brings, nothing beats. I have student loan money, and car money, and food money, and going out money, and not having to worry about shit money, and giving my mom money so she doesn’t have to work full time jobs and can sleep for once money.

Watching her sleep, you would think she was the form Solace. That all things gravitate towards her.

“Here’s five hundred, mom.”

“You’re getting paid for your internship?”

“Yes.”

No further questions, your honor. 

Weed, ecstacy, molly, cocaine- these aren’t hard drugs. You can take your morality lessons and shove them up your ass, because I supressed my conscience a long time ago. Yes, fine. I’m in a little bit of predicament as of current, but the universe looked out for me. The feds rolled up five minutes after I finished making a thousand dollar coke deal. I only had a few grams left on me, so they booked me on possession.

One minor charge won’t do anything to me. I have money to afford one of those hot-shot pretentious lawyers with offices situated in the heart of the city. Moral ambiguity understands moral ambiguity. And the only thing that makes noise now is the dolla dolla bills.

 


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