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And my mother. My mother, Merrill Compton-Walker…
You could do so much good with your life if you just applied yourself.
And to think I would never hear those words again.
I wasn’t a son; I was a problem to be solved. It wasn’t enough that I had gone to law school for him, spent three extra years of my life in a classroom listening to law professors teach about ethics and debate the Constitution… All of it was bullshit.
Such bullshit… because it didn’t matter now.
The walls feel as though they’re closing in on me and my chest begins to feel heavy, making it hard to breathe.
Why couldn’t he understand that I wasn’t him, that I didn’t want to be him?
How could I ever compete with the great Kerry Walker? I wasn’t meant to walk in his footsteps. His feet are – were, shit, were – too large, and his shadow too long for anyone to notice me, unless I was arrested for public drunkenness or a bar fight, which I realize is a very real possibility at this moment.
All I can think about is that I would never get another lecture from my father while he sat behind his large desk, looking at me with disappointment, and the words of that Emerson poem that he loved so fucking much comes tumbling out of me with much less grace than Emerson deserves.
The word of the lord by night,
to the watching pilgrims came,
as they sat by the seaside,
and filled their hearts with flame.
When I open my eyes and look around the bar, shocked faces, and some with amusement, look back at me and I realize I’m standing on top of a table, spilled beer clinging to my shoes. Before security can pull me down, I finish the poem, because when I commit to doing something, even if it’s something stupid, I’m all in. At this moment, the final line of the poem feels especially appropriate.
God said, I am tired of kings,
I suffer them no more.
The crowd fills the space with loud cheering, but it could be my performance or the fact that I’m being dethroned from my perch on the table and effectively silenced.
“Get your hands off me!” I yell as I’m dragged towards the exit by Tony the bartender.
As if I have the need to make this situation even worse, I take a swing at him, but I miss due to my inebriated state and my impaired depth perception. I feel the blow knocking my head back but there’s no pain, just the darkness that swims at the corner of my eyes. I blink a few times until I’m able to focus again, seeing Tony looking at me with both pity and anger.
“Don’t come back,” he says in a gruff tone as I’m deposited on my ass outside of the bar.
I’m vaguely aware of people walking past taking no notice of me, as if I’m just one of the many homeless in the alleys of Vegas.
Swiping a hand through my hair, I push a few rogue pieces off my forehead. This isn’t the first time I’ve been thrown out of a bar, but tonight – tonight everything feels different – feels more – like an exposed nerve ending being irritated, and it pulses through me like a live wire.
Placing a hand to the ground I try to prop myself up, but the whiskey swirling around inside of me makes that impossible, so I give in and lean against the wall. If I could fall asleep I would welcome the darkness, but I can’t get the images of the mangled helicopter out of my mind. Thoughts of my mother’s face swim against my eyelids. I open them to get rid of the image.
It takes a moment for my vision to regain focus, but in front of me are a pair of high heels attached to the sexiest fucking legs I’ve ever seen. My eyes roam unabashedly higher and higher to the hem of a black dress, and Jesus Christ, if I leaned forward just a smidge more, I think I might be able to see her panties.
“I’ve never heard anyone quote Emerson while they were drunk,” she says, and her voice is sweet like honey and almost childlike – such a contradiction to the curves of her body and those goddamn perfect legs. “Hemingway, yes,” she continues, cocking her head to the side, taking me in, “but Emerson?” She clicks her tongue. “No.”
Her statement makes me laugh and I lean my head back against the wall, if only so that I can look at her face. Her pink-dusted cheeks complement her pale blue eyes, and her hair framing her face is the color of a wheat field from a Van Gogh painting, a portion of it held back by a red ribbon.
I can feel myself sobering up, and I don’t like it because everything is becoming lucid, and I’d prefer it not be. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe I did fall asleep. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d had a wet dream in the form of a gorgeous blonde with legs for days.
Just to prove that she’s real, I run a finger up her calf, and yes, she’s real because even in a dream, no woman’s leg feels this soft. She doesn’t flinch; instead, she just moves her leg out of reach as if I got caught touching the merchandise without paying first. Smiling, I sit up a little straighter, pressing my back to the wall to get leverage so I can push myself into a standing position. As soon as I do the alley spins, and I pinch my eyes shut for a moment to get my bearings until the blackness fades away.
“Hemingway was a waste of a human, but a brilliant writer,” I state while managing to hold her gaze.
“And you think Emerson was a great human being with a subpar knack for prose?”
