"I wouldn't shut your eyes just yet, I wouldn't turn the
lights down yet"
Tindersticks, El Diablo en el Ojo |
An
old hotel room with stained sheets, alone with a bottle of bad
whiskey and a cracked cup. Tension and fear, exhausted but I
can't sleep--too much fear. I can't even remember the last time
I slept. My stomach is woozy. The whiskey doesn't help, but
it steadies my nerves. And I need that--I need so much more
than that. How did I end up here? You would not have recognized
me a year ago. Back then, I had friends, a girl and a decent
job. I seemed... almost happy.
Now it’s just me, this room, the whiskey, and too many
bad memories and ghosts to shake. It's so crowded out there,
outside this room. They are all huddled together out there.
This half-rotting hotel door is all that stands between me and
my memories' ghosts. And I mean really, how long will that last?
See, I don't want to remember nothing and yet it seems like
all I do, remember things, except how exactly I came to dwell
in this lowly state. I guess its my punishment, my penance--I
never could escape my Catholic upbringing. So this is payment
for my sins? I need another drink, except what I'm drinking
doesn't qualify.
There's a clock in this room and it ticks very slowly in time
with the leaky faucet in the bathroom. The clock on the downbeat,
the water on the up. And so I get a back and forth rhythm reinforcing
the syrup-like slowdown of the night. The minutes drag--hours
don't come. It's so quiet here, except for the ticking and low
rumble of traffic outside my window, that any other sound jars,
amplified tenfold by the contrasting quiet. Maybe I should look
out the window, but I'm petrified, stuck in this chair, staring
at the cracks in the wall and cup, the lines in my hand. But
I gotta piss, can't hold it any longer, so I struggle to the
bathroom.
The mirror in the bathroom has a heavy coat of dust on it that
mercifully softens my reflection. I piss for eternity and it
feels good, the closest I've gotten in days to something resembling
good. I splash water on my face and run my hands through my
hair. Then I hear voices and footsteps outside the door, my
whole body clenches in anticipation but they pass and disappear
down the hallway. I relax just a little, still all my nerves
are on edge. I think about trying to shave and decide it might
make me feel better. But my hand shakes too badly and after
several nicks I give up and return to my post, keeping the wall,
the cup and my whiskey company.
| William
Crain, August 2002 |
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