Under the Gun: Chapter 11 - Let's Get Down To Brass Tact
(you are reading the latest installment of the underground sensation that is 'Under the Gun'. this groundbreaking serial anthology is a completely original work of autofiction. each chapter is released immediately after writing and is prepared solely by the author without editing or rewrite. thirty minutes of furious typing and one quick pass with spellcheck are the only things in between the spark of an idea deep within the twisted mind of a part-time ponitificator and the message being received by the general public. read, enjoy, think, and share. and, oh yeah,....don't. forget: dream big, act swiftly - b2)
UTG: Part 11 - 'Let's get down to brass tact'
No kid ever dreams that they will one day grow to be in MRO sales, Besides the fact that most kids kids have no idea what MRO is, heck most adults don't either. Sometimes I think that half of the people in the business of Maintenance, Repair, and Operations products for industry don't know what it means.
No, most kids I grew up with wanted to be doctors, lawyers, firefighters, soldiers, or Evil Knievel. I was no different. Okay, I was a little different. I wanted to be a writer. And at 41 years old, I'd probably be a pretty good one by now if I'd had stayed the course.
'Tha' course' I'm referring to was my grand plan. I had it all figured out. In the late eighties Orlando, Florida was just coming into it's own as the 'Hollywood of the East'. The University of Central Florida had just opened it's cinematography department, and I had just graduated high school. The timing couldn't have been better.
Or could it. Looking back now I can see that the early symptoms had already started to show. I was laying the groundwork for what was to become a twenty year internal battle between me and my destiny.
The ink hadn't even dried on my diploma and I was on 75 South blazing a trail to O-town the day after graduation. I remember being pulled over, not for speeding, but because the Georgia state trooper wanted know what was in all the milk crates in my back seat. My answer, "everything".
And everything it was. Twenty three 45's, eleven albums, seventy two cassette tapes, one boom box, three pairs of Levi's, two Allman Brother's concert shirts, one blue jean jacket, and a lava lamp. Everything, and bag a chips.
Despite the lead I had gotten from a family member who's co-worker's brother was the senior editor at Disney Studios, I immediately got two jobs washing dishes. And wash dishes I did. I spent so much time with my head stuck inside the steamy hole of a Hobart commercial sanitation machine that I was the only eighteen year old on the east coast with clear skin.
And I ate good too. No, I didn't clean any plates if that's what you're thinking. I took care of myself. Each and every payday I went out and got a brand new jar of Goober Grape. Sometimes I would even splurge on a loaf of bread to spread it on. But not often.
The lack of dietary sustenance didn't slow me down a bit. I was driven by a different kind of hunger. What I needed was the right environment. The right friends. The right mindset. What I needed was money. I was convinced that if I worked hard enough, conquer-the-world-hard-enough, then I could arrive a special time and place that would allow me to follow my passions. I would one day be free to feed my muse. But first I needed to make it. It never occurred to me, not once, that if I followed my passions a life could unfold. I chose the path of sweat. And sweat I did.
But this 'Jack' didn't let all that work make him a dull boy. Oh no. I made it to UCF. Sort of.
Delta Tau Chi fraternity, off campus, was my one and only foray into collegiate life.
Needless to say, I didn't sleep much that year. Or the next really. At first I passed it off as the exuberance of youth, though I don't think that I used the word exuberance until I was well into my thirties. Later I found that my mind and my body were on completely different rest cycles. Sometimes I would be sleepwalking through life, other times I would be frozen on the floor, limbs given out, yet mind racing with ideas, solutions, and ever increasing quandaries. What was I running after, when would I find it, what would I do then.
I try not to regret how many years I spend running after an unknown prize. After all, if I had not made every decision, made every move, taken every turn, I would not be where I am right now.
well right now you're waiting to see a head shrinker because you are being a panty waist about the blood sickness they think you have.......
And right now I'm waiting to see a therapist because of the voice in my head......
oh, so now it's MY FAULT!! listen here blood-boy, you need me. YOU NEED ME!!
...and due to the fact that I haven't cried in twenty five years.
liar, liar..you cry all the time.
Despite the occasions that have seemed 'appropriate' I only seem to get angry.
now you're talking...come on get mad....
I've come close to crying a couple of times, while listening to music, alone.
no, I said get mad, not sappy. boy you're a piece-a-work!
At age seventeen screaming Alice Cooper's "I'm 18, and I like it" to the top of my lungs til my dry eyes started to burn.....
i'm telling you, don't go there....
Again, a few years later the first time I heard Radiohead's "High and Dry".....
don't you do it!!
...and now, every single time "disarm" from The Smashing Pumpkins comes on.
"I think that we made some real progress today Mr. B."
"I do too, Dr. Foley. I do too."
oh me too. now, let's go do some 'driving and crying', shall we. give-unto-me-a-break......
(for more of 'Under the Gun' be sure to check out the previous 10 chapters at b2publishing.blogspot.com. don't miss a single installment, follow my site by joining with your Google or web i.d. or simply sign up for email updates. either way, your contact information is secure and will be used for no other purposes. comments are read and criticism is always taking constructively. besides, as you just read, I can't cry. so bring it on. - b2)
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Keep it real, keep it clean, let me have it....