Nostalgia of the Mind

I woke at dawn to the bleating of a possessed goat December 22, 2009

Another piece from my creative writing class. The assignment was to use certain types of words in a narrative (ie color, animal, geographical feature).

I woke at dawn to the bleating of a possessed goat. The sky was sherbet; reds and yellows and oranges swirled among the swoosh of seagulls and the faintest smell of salt. It was the kind of morning that poets waxed poetic about, the kind of sunrise which made it glorious to be alive, to experience the world in its beauty and wonder. I scratched my crotch and pulled the curtain closed. “Shut the fuck up,” I muttered to my roommate the goat. The phrase carried no enthusiasm. After almost a month, I had given up any hope that I was getting rid of the fucker. He had become a fixture in the corner of my bedroom, glaring at me with eyes the most vibrant shade of shit. Whatever the fuck had possessed me that one drunken night to buy—of all things—a fucking goat had left me angry and bitter.

I decided not to go into work again today. I mustered up a weak cough and phoned Rosens, croaking something about the flu and explosive diarrhea. Explosive diarrhea, that’s the last resort. Like that comedian said, no-one wants an employee with explosive-fucking-diarrhea. I shuffled into the kitchen, looking for something to beat the living shit out of the goat with. I found the remains of a pop tart instead. Strawberry.

Breakfast done, I shuffled over to the couch. I lived in a one-room apartment on the west side. The ocean eight blocks away and I get a window facing the fucking sunrise. When I say I shuffled over to my kitchen, I literally slopped from my bed to the fridge a yard away. And a yard away from that was the couch. I flopped onto it. I collapsed. It was like a deck of card hit by a baseball. First my knees sagged, and then my head fell over, and my body reluctantly tumbling after. I scrounged for the remote and found a shoe instead. I threw it pleadingly at the goat. Shoes don’t work well against the devil. The goat bleated and took a huge steaming pile on my carpet. Fucker.

I woke to the strains of debt collectors. Calling about that debt I had. I fell into a ravine about a month ago and needed stitches. And a shower. And now since I don’t have medical insurance they expect me to pay for it. I could hear the patter of rain on the window. Which was strange, since it was a perfectly clear day when I woke up. I could see the smog of LA billowing for miles around. And now only laconic storm clouds. They could take the effort to try a little bit. But no, they drizzle and pitter-patter and leave me dry and cynical. I blow gently into my saxophone. I don’t remember picking it up, but here it is in my hands. I serenade the goat with the most blaring and abrasive sounds I can muster. The goat rolls over. I lay my saxophone carefully aside and sprawl myself on the floor.

And contemplate the boredom and uselessness of life. My life specifically. Back in high school, the world was open before me. I was ready, prepared, enthusiastic. Out in the world, I would make a name for myself. I would be successful. But life spits on your plans. It laughs at them. A couple mistakes, a couple short straw pulls, and I’m stuck leading a useless life with a useless job and a useless-fucking-goat in my bedroom-kitchen-couch combination. What a waste of such potential. Who would have guessed I was a mother-fucking cynic huh?