Week Five: Adult Entertainment.

"Maturity is a high price to pay for growing up."
~ Tom Stoppard

I'm fifteen minutes outside of the city, thinking about what a complete load of horseshit the day has been. The lights of the dashboard flicker with every bump I hit, and the pulsing glow of the USB thumb drive is illuminating the interior of the Jeep in a flashing blue. The urge to drink kicks in.

"Fuck," I say aloud to no one. I'm a lot like my mother. 

***

"I'm not trying to ruin your day,"I say in a voice that has no patience left in it. "I'm trying to brighten mine. Don't you understand..." My voice starts to sound like "Blah, blah, blah, blah," and I'm suddenly looking out from within, trapped in this body that is acting of it's own accord. Though it is fully functioning, and having one hell of an argument, the real me is watching from within, wondering how I ended up living someone else's life. I see her mouth start moving, but I don't hear anything. 

*** 

The alarm is going off. I realize somewhere in the back of my mind that I've started associating that sound with the fact that I have to start doing things that I don't want to do. That can mean only one thing....

***

It's about an hour after the alarm went off.  It would appear that I have slept through it. I'm two hours until work, five minutes from a shower and six years late for deciding what to do with my life. I cannot be the calm little candy coating of someone else's world when I can't even... 

"Hey, honey," I beam. I find that if I pretend to enjoy the way the day is going, I can trick myself into living it. 

***

It' hot in here. It's so goddamned hot in here. I mean, it doesn't help that I'm standing over a grill and a 350 degree flat top, but add the open windows, humidity, 80 degree weather and the fact that there are fans that are specifically designed to suck all of the air out of a room, and that makes for one hell of an experience. Oh, yeah...and this fucking coat. 

As per par, we're busy as shit. It's that kind of busy that makes taking the business end of a plunger first seem like a slightly less painful idea, and because of that, the tensions are running high. I look over at Andrew and...

***

I'm fifteen minutes outside of the city, thinking about what a complete load of horseshit the day has been. The lights of the dashboard flicker with every bump I hit, and the pulsing glow of the USB thumb drive is illuminating the interior of the Jeep in a flashing blue. The urge to drink kicks in.

"Fuck," I say aloud to no one. I'm a lot like my mother.

WeeK Four: Childlike In Nature

"It is utterly false and cruelly arbitrary to put all the play and learning into childhood, all the work into middle age, and all the regrets into old age."
~ Margaret Mead

Nothing in my childhood is really worth writing, but for the most part, I have little to regret about it. For all of the folly and violence, the misuse of trust and the brainwashing, I'd say that I came out far better than most do. That being said, I only have snippets, really. Mush like now, most of my days were the same, which makes them hard to recall in any specific order. 

I remember photographs; a child with curly blonde hair sitting on the front steps to an apartment building in a small complex. He looks happy and is holding a stuffed animal, and there is no one else in the picture. I don't recall ever being there, or being that child, but I do remember the picture. I find it odd that memory works that way. 

I remember, vividly, the first time that I came home to find my mother, passed out drunk, on the floor. I had just gotten off of the bus, let myself in the house, and there she was on the floor. She was wearing sweatpants,  a ruffled red shirt, and was face-to-face with her own vomit. For what it's worth, she looked content. 

There are blurs of Christmas, gifts unwrapped and strewn about the living room so I could peruse them and not be bothered with the hassle of unwrapping them. Upon retrospect, it may just be because she didn't want to clean up the mess, or drank to late into the night to wrap them. It's hard to say for certain. 

I was never a particularly popular child. I think that is due in no small part to living with a single mother that was completely outside the realm of anything even remotely normal or stable. I guess that she tried, but really, what does it matter in the end? A failure is a failure, and that's basically all that it boiled down to. 

I realize that thinking too far into my life with my mother doesn't really cover the complexities of childhood, or even a single moment of childhood, but in a lot of ways, I never really got to have one. Between dragging her to bed, making sure that I fed myself, doing my own homework, and a veritable laundry list of other things that should have been done for me, I really wasn't very much of a child in anything but age and experience. 

It's too bad, really. I would have liked this to be one of those pieces that a lot of people would read and relate to. I would like to go on about days of following the creek, trying to find out where it ended. I would like to talk about long bike rides with friends, and how we would head out at eight in the morning and not return until six in the evening, and all of the adventures we had in between those times. I'd even like to talk about the time I fell into the foundation of a large building that was being constructed  and how the firemen literally had to run a ladder over it and dig me out. Sadly, though all of these things happened, nothing is more ever present in my memories of childhood than being robbed of my childhood. 

I'd like to say this to my childhood, though:

We did make it out. Though it took years upon years, cost us time, money, friends, women and, at times, our freedom, we made it out. 

See, my inner child wasn't beaten. It was forced to retreat a tad bit early, but when I look around the room that I currently occupy, I see all the signs of my childhood still active. I have my horror movie posters on the walls, a massive collection of action figures, statues and comic books. From time to time, no one on this planet enjoys a bowl of Fruity Pebbles as much as I do, and I still like staying up late at night, just because I'm excited about life and hate wasting any moment of it. 

But the story of my escape and eventual liberation is a story for another time. And though she put me through a considerable level of hell, I forgive my mother for almost all of it. 

Week Three: The Traveler

"I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train."
~ Oscar Wilde

With this, I was going to do a great many things. I was going to discuss the idea that tattoos were a road map; each one marking a different year, journey, or period in my life. I was going to reflect on how they get more complex with my age, or how you really get to know a lot about me by scanning them over; how they add color to an obediently caucasian canvas, and how excited I am whenever I have money to add to the collection. But that was just one part of the story. 

I wanted to talk about the many times I have mastered the living hell that is riding on a Greyhound Bus. I wanted to illustrate that each stop along the way is like a tour of all of the worst things about American society. I was going to explore what it's like to see NYC at four in the morning, fresh of the bus, bottle of Courvoisier in a brown paper bag, going to eat Chinese food. How the rats are as large as raccoons, and the city is still as alive as a pulse. Or maybe talk about what it's like to be crammed in a giant metal tube that reeks of sweat and anticipation, every person a character in someone else's tale, all with the desire to be where they're going, and staring, blankly, out of the windows, watching the country pass them by, just like the lives that they so desperately long to get back to. In a way, it's a lot like stepping out of time. That, too, is but part of the tale. 

I wanted to talk about living in Texas, Ohio, North Carolina and Maine. I would touch on the differences in climate, standards of living, cultural diversity and where you can or cannot get a pimento-cheeseburger at two in the morning. I could regale everyone with the fact that I hate the snow, but also hate humidity, which means I've never truly appreciated any of those places. How I ended up drinking in, taking picture of, or hanging out in a cemetery in all of those places, or how people are basically assholes everywhere you go, which pretty much makes everywhere you go the same. But that just doesn't seem to work, either. 

I guess what Im really saying here, is that no matter where I've been, or what I've done, I collect it all as I go. The adventure that is living - this life that I am drinking in and experiencing, even right now, is the only journey, the only real travel that has ever been important to me. 

Alas, there is still much to do and more to see. 

Week Two: Smoking and Bread

"I can calculate the motion of heavenly bodies, but not the madness of people."
~ Isaac Newton

The lights in the kitchen are out. That's generally the first thing that I take care of on the days that I open, but for some odd reason, I just clock in, turn around and go back out onto the porch for a smoke. As I sit there, I think about everything humanly possible (other than the arduous day ahead of me, that is). The sun is shining, there are no clouds to pock mark the rich blue of the sky overhead. Sure, it's quiet now, but during nice days like today, Ellsworth doesn't stay that way for very long. It's going to be another day of taking it in the ass, and as I toss my cigarette out into the parking lot (which the old ladies just absolutely love me doing), I take another breath and head inside. 

I really like this place when I'm the only one in it. It's dark, quiet, and most importantly, no one is asking me for a goddamned thing. See, what I do is all about serving others. I fill stomachs and I fill requests; that's basically all my job really boils down to, when you take away the ability to reason quickly, the skill involved, and the monstrous amount of stress that I've learned to live with, if not exactly cope with. 

I walk around the kitchen, "turning on all the fires," and making sure that everything is functioning correctly, not really realizing it at the time (though I always do later), that I'm doing it with mechanical unawareness, not thinking, really, but rather automatically performing an action that requires only perfunctory attentions. A click here, a twist of a knob there, maybe a pilot to be ignited. It's all real, simple, boring, basic shit. And people pay us out the ass for it. But I digress. 

With everything now taken care of, I could probably start working on the day's prep list. We keep one posted on the large stand-up fridge unit in the middle of the kitchen. The problem with this, is that there isn't anyone else in the building, which means that I have no real motivator for a smashing work ethic.  See, it basically breaks down like this: I get what needs to be done, done, but if I can put that off for any length of time, I most assuredly will. Hell, most of my instructors at school could testify to that. I just don't see the point in doing it all immediately, and I think this for two reasons: The first being that Andrew will be here in less than an hour, and two people can get more done than one, and secondly, if it all gets done now, then I'll just be standing around later. Logic would then dictate that if I'm to be standing around for a portion of my day, then it should most certainly be at a time of my choosing. 

So in that frame of mind, I set out to do the easiest task that I can possibly think of - make bread. To the average Joe Jackass, making bread might seem to be a bit of an issue, but I'm fairly sure that at this point in time, I can do it with my eyes closed. I yawn, take a sip of coffee, then saunter about, collecting the ingredients. Two ounces of salt, two-point-two-five ounces of dry active yeast, six pounds of high gluten flour, seven and a half cups of water, and a pinch of sugar for helping hasten the activation of the yeast. Voila. Dough. Into the large stand mixer it goes, ten minutes on setting one, fifteen minutes on setting two, into a bowl with a cover, and boom. That's that. Yes, one thing after another, over and over again, but its a learning process. I didn't become able to do this overnight, much as no one just magically inherits any skill that they possess. 

As time passes and I return to the dough to see if it has risen, I hear a clacking sound from behind me, and then the very loud and obnoxious "WHAT UP, CRACKA!?!!?" Ladies and gentlemen, Andrew has entered the building, and if tone of voice is any indication, he's probably already had at least a whole pot of coffee and a Red Bull. I like Andrew. He's one of those people that moves extremely gracefully under pressure; as if he has somehow figured out how to make time slow around him as the rest of the building is collapsing into some sort of anarchistic chaos. 

"What's up, dude?" he asks in his usual, "I really care" voice.

"Living the dream," I counter. "It's time for a smoke break."

"Heard that," he says. 

So back out onto the porch we go, lighting up cancer as if it's somehow the cure to the worlds ills. I'm fairly certain that I've doubled my nicotine intake since working this job. After all, there has to be some excuse to leave the kitchen several times a day, and logic would dictate that, as a smoker, this is the easiest possible method of achieving said goal. 

We don't really talk about anything this early in the morning. This is that period in time with which you must actually mentally prepare yourself for what we in the industry call "The Shit Show." It requires any ability to put up with bullshit that few human beings are capable of, thus have no idea that a level of marked preparedness is required for such a thing. 

As the last drag of the cigarette fills my lungs, I flick the butt out into the parking lot (which the old ladies just love me doing), and head on back in to finally start the day that was just like like yesterday....

Week One: Nature and Stuff.

"All my life I have tried to pluck a thistle and plant a flower wherever the flower would grow in thought and mind."
~ Abraham Lincoln

As I pull into the driveway from a long day of work, I take a second to enjoy the breeze coming through the windows. As someone who wears an all black uniform, drives an all black Jeep, with a black leather interior, no A/C and a malfunctioning sunroof, I have learned to appreciate a nice breeze. 

I reach forward, sliding the automatic shifter into reverse. The Jeep backs slowly out of the driveway, and I pull partially onto the yard, right where I have worn the grass away. As I step out of the Jeep, I look around the overgrown mess of the yard, knowing that it should have been mowed more than once this summer, but not having the heart to really care. I realize that others probably look down on such a massive jungle of yard, but I actually quite enjoy it. My lawn is a kingdom all it's own; an ecosystem within a quaint, suburban sprawl. 

So up to the house, I journey. I wade through the tall grass, eventually making my way to the wooden front stars, moving the branches of the mutant front bushes out of my way as I go. 

Upon entering the house, I realize two things right from the jump: One of these things is that the boy-child still hasn't done shit to take care of the giant pile of Lego blocks that the room is slowly morphing into. The other is that the dog (the goddamned dog), is in his crate, and that there is what seems to be dirt and mud leading from it, to what I can only assume is a trail going all the way to the back door. 

My logic is not mistaken.

I follow the trail to the back door, where I look out into something that more closely resembles the jungles of Vietnam, than a nice white house on Normal Street. Here, the grass and weeds grow so high that one needs a machete to safely navigate the terrain. In this back yards, the grass cuts you. In this back yard, your house is the REAL back yard, and nature is both King and Queen of her household. 

All of this takes place in my head in the...maybe ten seconds it takes me to find what I'm looking for. And find it, I most certainly do. 

A few feet beyond the doorway into the mystical kingdom that is my back yard, there is a giant hole, and around it, what I can only assume are the manic claw marks of a certain white Boxer pup. 

The hole is about three feet wide, and easily deep enough to bury said Boxer pup in. At times, I'm certain that he is digging his own grave, though the thought of him actually digging his own grave is absolutely hilarious to me. 

I take a deep breath and turn around. As I re-enter the house, the irony that the days work is never finished dawns on me. True, I have returned from work, and in the brief period between finishing one job and starting another, I got a brief glimpse of nature; the workings and beauty of the world. As I prepare a towel, grab the cleaning spray, and prepare to reprimand the dog, I take a look out of the window, knowing that I will not be breathing in another breath of fresh air until tomorrow.....when I head out to the all black Jeep, with the black leather interior, wearing my all black uniform, to do it all over again. 

About me? You and you and you, too.

"I am certainly not one of those who need to be prodded. In fact, if anything, I am the prod."

~ Winston Churchill

When handed a pocket radio, I chose to smash it on the ground. "I choose to make my own music, if it pleases you. Perhaps even if it doesn't, " I say. 

It was in this fashion that Brad Biddix chose to live out his days. When asked to look back and reflect upon his life, particularly his early years in urban North Carolina, he simply responded with "What's the point?"

Indeed, conducting an  interview with this notorious human being was a difficult task. 

Mr. Biddix recently gained the attentions of people nationwide recently, when he set a new standard in modern literature for obscure ramblings and publishing works of seemingly insane "insiders only" information. In fact, his works have been considered to "make absolutely no sense," and to "quickly descend into chaos and babbling." 

"Look," he was reported to say,"this shit has taken on a life of it's own" And it would seem to be the case. 

Mr. Biddix grew up in several towns in and around Charlotte, North Carolina. From a young age, he was an inspired artist, writer, and lover of literature. He has been spotted with material from Hunter S. Thompson and Charles Bukowski, to name a few. It is unclear whether  or not these are his inspirations, or just authors that he feels some sort of vague connection to. It is also known that he is a student of film and philosophy, an avid lover of drink and relaxation, and somewhat dabbles in the culinary arts. 

Mr. Biddix currently resides in Bangor, ME, though rumor heavily implies that he is about to relocate to Ellsworth, so he can "be closer to work"

It is also known that he lives with his spouse, Erica Smith, and that they carry on heated debtes, ranging from topics of criticism, the arts, what to spend money on and culinary tastes, all the way down to the nature vs. nurture train of thought. 

When we last tried to catch up with him, Mr. Biddix quickly dodged us, making further interviews almost impossible. 

As of this writing, we are currently scouring the local watering holes, sure that he will eventually turn up.