Confessions of the Inner Voice


Last Friday was my official last day at my job. I showed up early, like 9:00 a.m. thinking I was just going to be lazily writing in my journal all day. Needless to say I was extremely frustrated as I found myself working my ass off like my life depended on it that morning trying to get everything done. At around 12:30 p.m. I meet up with my former supervisor at our local Mexican restaurant and we share beers, shrimp burritos and old war stories from the job. I remember feeling slightly regretful about quitting but at the end of the day that place had stressed her out so much that she quit because she was losing her hair in clumps and it stressed me out so much that it triggered a nasty case of psoriasis that left bloody rashes on the sides of face and hairline… that I’m still battling.

We swapped horror stories for a little while longer before I headed back for my last final moments at the job. It was the most affirming thing to park in the front in the one-hour visitor’s section. There have been a couple of times where I was trying to make a dramatic scene out of my last moments. Every day since I put in my two-week notice when I have parked my car in the lot, I look out at the sky and dramatically say to myself, “This. Is. The. Last. Day!” … only to find that I have to return the next fucking day. This time, however, I parked in the visitors’ section and it finally clicked, “This is it! Holy shit!”

I go upstairs. I sign some paperwork saying basically that I left on my own volition, I get my final check and a “Now That You Ain’t Got A Job” pamphlet from the state. The comptroller closes his door and his curiosity is just too great, he wants to know what I’m doing after this. I have been extremely hush hush since announcing my departure and he wants to know. He says, “I know you didn’t feel safe discussing it before but now that you officially don’t work here anymore…” then trailed off. I very brightly said, “Well, I still don’t feel safe.” We both gave each other an uncomfortable chuckle before I lied and said that I had a more profitable job lined up. I then went on to discuss my dislike of one of the owners of the company. Thinking back, I am very proud of the way I handled that situation because I did not explode, I did not go off into the DOZENS of vignettes I could have that would have described exactly why that dude in all actuality is Satin himself. I kept my answers civil, short and with my indoor business voice. “I just don’t care for his managerial style” I said while what I was feeling was, “I WANT TO RIP THAT NIGGAS’ EYES OUT OF HIS GOD DAMN SOCKET AND SHOVE THEM UP HIS ASS!” But alas, I didn’t. The comptroller, however, did express his angst with the guy and how that angst is shared by a LOT of people in the office. That, I have to say, made me feel good.

There was still some work that needed to be done I was going to volunteer 15 minutes of my own time to finish everything but after the chilly response I got from my direct supervisor after leaving the comptroller’s office, reality just hit me… I officially don’t work here anymore. And regardless of who’s fault it is… I’m not “welcome” here. So I stopped what I was doing right then and there, stood up and told my coworkers who were in earshot that I was going to miss them. The Office Manager and the Comptroller came out of their respective offices and I joked (for the most part) that if I come back would I have to go through the whole hiring process again. I have never heard any of them laugh so hard. I went downstairs to get my last coffee from that Coffee Bean so I could get my parking ticket validated for free parking. I walked to my car, drove out of the structure, and that was that. I never saw any of the owners or the other managers again. I don’t think that was by accident. If they wanted to see me, they would have seen me. I was sad about it. Maybe a little disappointed? Maybe hoping that they were better men than me? Why was I hoping for that?

I truthfully didn’t want to see one owner at all. He really wasn’t a part of that equation. I thank him for being such a horrible person that it clarified some goals in my life at this point in my life, but I’m not ready to “honor” him for being the rotten cunt that he is. Maybe later. Maybe after I have gotten a little bit of success under my belt. In the meantime, as we speak, he is in that shit filled pit with my ex. I know these adversaries will make me stronger… but FUCK YOU for volunteering to be my adversary.

So the plan was to go to a friend’s house for some cocktails and weed then Uber over to the Eagle for more cocktails and depravity then wind up back at the friend’s house for more liquor, more weed and watch tv. But by the time I get home it dawns on me that I have been up for about 32 hours on 3 hours of sleep. Soon as I walk through the door a WALL of exhaustion falls on me. I think I took a shower, I can’t remember, I remember just dragging for the rest of the night. By the time I call the Uber, I slide into the back seat and just pass out till we get to my friends’ apartment. I want to take a powernap when I get there but my friend is a fireball of energy and just keeps talking at lightening speed. I have some cocktails and a few hits from hit hookah pipe. We head to the Eagle.

I should preface this by saying that when I got home, in my exhausted state, by pure luck I happened to come upon this blue suede jacket that Reese gave me back in the day. It goes with these blue suede pants he gave me. At the time I had lost a substantial amount of weight and both of them swallowed me whole they were so big. However, I have since gained that weight back and was positive they would fit. The jacket did at least. So I began this wild search for the pants. My psoriasis was clearing up to the point where I was actually shaving again. I stopped shaving awhile back in an effort for my beard and head hair to hide the bleeding. I thought it would be so cool to try out my “Big Daddy” swagger that night but alas, I couldn’t find those damn pants. That night what I settled for was this oversized short sleeve black shirt with a collar that I usually wear to work on Casual Fridays, my dirty old jeans, and my dirty old gym shoes. This on top of the fact that I did not shave because I was too tired to and my general exhaustion… I was NOT feeling pretty… at all.

So what does one do when one is exhausted and self-conscious about their appearance? One drinks themselves into a complete stupor.

The Eagle was packed. It was there 11 year anniversary I think and it was wall to wall White people in different forms of leather regalia. There were a few people of color but it was a typical gay function, White folks EVERYWHERE. And there was me, short, tired, homeless looking. I had an okay time. At one point I got my second wind and vowed to make out with someone regardless of my appearance, but it never happened. I remember the music being extremely loud and having to scream to be heard over it. This is when Andrew comes into the scene.

Andrew shows up, as beautiful as ever, with his new beau; an equally as beautiful, tall, and muscular Black man. And I know this type; the “I-know-I-am-fucking-beautiful-so-I-am-going-to-stay-quiet-demur-and-on-the-fence-about-everything-so-no-matter-who-you-are-liberal-or-conservative-Jew-or-Gentile-you-all-can-adore-me.” It’s a very “Model” composure whereas you put forth this huge effort to come off as this polite beautiful mannequin. I’ve seen it a million times. You can tell in just the first five seconds or in the handshake. You’re looking through me, not at me, you don’t care, you’re being polite, you have huge dimples, I want to fuck you. Yes, some of this is me deflecting my own insecurities, but you can’t deny your own intentions. I’ll admit my own thirstiness, but you also have to acknowledge the water buckets you’re intentionally waving in front of me.

At one point we’re all in a group. The music is blasting. I am screaming to be heard. Andrew taps me on the shoulder and says something to the effect of, “You don’t have to scream so loud” as he grimaces and places a delicate finger in a delicate ear.

“WHAT?!” I scream back in a drunken slur.

“You’re very loud Breeze. You don’t have to talk so loud” he says without a trace of humor or fear.

“AM I TALKING TOO LOUD?!” I scream back with an even more drunken slur.

“Yes” he says, his anger increasing, slightly making his mannequin grin crack into a real glower of irritability, “You don’t have to scream all the time” he sneers.

“WELL I DON’T HAVE TO SCREAM ALL THE TIME! IT’S JUST THAT THE MUSIC IS SO LOUD! I CAN BE QUIET!” I yell back then pretend to say something but only mouth silent words.

He responds, “Yes, I can understand you like that. I prefer that” he says politely.

“WELL FUCK YEAH I CAN DO THAT SHIT!” I scream drunkenly.

It reminded me of that time when another friend once said that I’m a slut and that I make out with anybody indiscriminately and then I proceeded to stop making out with ANYBODY for YEARS afterwards because I was so hurt and ashamed that that’s what everybody thought of me. I could feel this anger bubbling up. Am I just this loud mouth drunk at the bar that everybody shies away from and shoots side eye glances to each other every time I open my mouth? Compacted with the fact that I felt so amazingly sloppy and uncouth next to these supermodels, I really just wanted to pull down my pants and take a shit on their boots and yell “FUCK YOUR STANDARDS PRETTY BOYS! I DRINK! I YELL! I KISS! I LOVE! I AM BREEZE! HEAR ME ROAR!” and then I vomit on their pretty little muscular and indecisive leather clad chests.

Alas I didn’t do any of that. Instead I just drunkenly yelled, “YEAH, OK, MAYBE I AM TOO LOUD!”

#life

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