On The Road: The Search for an acting Job
There was a click-clack time clock shifting through the ethos. The soft humanty of it's birth tapped across the hardwood floor like the angelic pitter-pat of mice feet. No one could hear this gentle thunder under the wall of manic hyena laughter spilling from the teeth of barflies and misdirected tramps. The madness flooded my ears with the sick delight of another sloppy Saturday night. Perhaps the mirrored reflection of my work-saddened eyes changed momentarily... but it seemed that no one else had reacted to the final heartbeat of summer. No one else would notice that a child that once yearned for simple happiness--held out the wishful hope for love--chasing a sick American destruction -- yet my Taoist simplicity had died on the barstool. Just the small flicker of a soul... nothing more... nothing less. The barkeep kept pouring downers, the city streets yawned slick with rain. No one moved a muscle. No one batted an eyelid. Stubby fingers raised a cigarette to my lips and I inhailed a celebratory death march.
The years of fruitful adventurous youth had been melting away over wildly consumed pints of fist-pounded beer. The dreams of disillusion and depression had eaten an endless hole into my very being... but luckily there was still a glimmer of belief that somewhere, just beneath the skin, lay a dormant daydream... A shining diamond of hope waiting to be scratched and set forth hemmoraging into the night. Kerouac's ghost spoke in a whisper. I bowed my head to listen.
The memory of BIG SUR made me realize that there was once a man that brooded, searched, poured his heart out over stupid scrawled notebook pages, and drank himself into a warm welcoming fit of soul-destroying death. Was this sad night prowl an attempt to become more like this lonesome traveler or was it simply the case of another lost soul fighting against the world within--the world without--the demons that claw into the meat of your brain and refuse to let go? Jack Kerouac spoke to me, when I needed this common ground more than I needed to throw crumpled dollar bills on the sticky bar top. I needed guidance. I needed something other than dying on the cross of my own dastardly sins... only to be reborn in the devilish delights of lady night.
I needed to understand why I kept two quarters in my Pea Coat pocket... along with a broken cigarette that was the last resort before digging through ashtrays for half-smoked butts. Originally the thought would be that I would never be broke... but for some reason I think that it meant more than that. I walked home on twisted drunken streets, in freezing rain and prayed for snow. I cursed God in mumbled breaths, dodged the slushed whiz of passing cars, and prayed for hope... forgiveness... some way to arrive home so that I may rest my blurry head.
In the morning, amid the pounding unforgiving blood pressure and spinning toils... there was snow. Somehow the small pleasures of tiny forgotten prayers had been answered. A small glimmer of childhood glee returned. Unfortunately the worktime woes of adulthood would chase those smiles away. Throw a hat on, splash water on my face, throw on a jacket, and try not to vomit. These ails, the pains of searching for answers that have no question... How long would this one last? How much longer could I keep this up? None of those questions were pointed down the correct path. None of the answers seemed to matter. For now, there was the small matter of mere survival. I must survive the day... and approach another night. There might be sleep... For now there was work.