You wanna know what's the least attractive quality a person can have? Self-pity.
"You know, four years ago, when I was in high school, I ran that place. I was the shit. I drove a Mercedes Benz. I was an athlete. I was good at school. I didn't even have to try, everything was so easy." Mordred took a swig of beer from his bottle and placed it back on the coffee table. The faraway look in his eye was frightening in the fading light.
The blinds were drawn, as usual, but there were slants of light illuminating parts of the couch. I sat on one end of it with my feet tucked under me, wearing a fleece jacket. Mordred was supposed to go eat with me that night. I had driven straight from work. It took me an hour.
"I played three sports, you know. I was good. I almost took a scholarship out of state." His fists were balled up at his knees. He looked like something out of Grapes of Wrath. And that's not even a joke, because only last week we'd been a Benton and Julie's apartment on 8th and they'd had a bathroom scale. Mordred weighed himself at 109. He was six feet tall.
I didn't even want to think about myself by comparison.
He shook down the sleeves of his sweater and gripped them by the ends with his fingers. He put his fists together in his lap like an eskimo.
"Little do I know, huh?" I pulled at the frayed seam on my jacket. "I'm hangin out with one of the cool kids."
Mordred was getting sentimental and sad. He wouldn't feel that way for long. He'd start feeling angry or something within a few minutes. I didn't really want to fight the battle anymore. I was tired of telling him what he knew deep down was true.
Mordred needed to get up off his bony little butt and do something with himself.
"You wanna go get a hamburger?" His eyes had more light in them this time.
"Sure."
Two hours later he was pissed at me, and probably a little high. I told him not to take that much, but its hard to tell someone that when you've hardly ever taken the stuff yourself.
He sat in the rolling chair in front of his computer. The back on the chair was broken, so he had to hunch forward. He stared at the screen and opened a poker game. He didn't even say anything to me when I turned on the tv.
There were lots of things in Mordred's apartment that were broken. The kitchen smelled like rotten food. The cracked linoleum hadn't been replaced since 1972. The windows weren't draft proof. There was a small pile of ash in the corner of his bedroom where something had caught fire once. The mattress was laying on the floor set on an ancient box spring. There were faded print sheets stapled to the window casings like super ghetto drapes. A globe light fixture was used as an ash tray. The cheaply constructed add-on bathroom hadn't been cleaned since he'd moved in. There were moldy spots all over the ceiling in there because the construction hadn't been added with enough ventilation. I had never seen the other two apartments that made up the old house he lived in. It was built in 1920 and there were parts of it that made it seem old and beautiful. But overall it was a sad sight when Mordred was living in it. The hardwood in his apartment had been painted green, and sometimes, only sometimes, you could hear what for weeks we had thought was a rat trapped in the apartment walls. It turned out to be a squirrel. Luckily Mordred's pot dealer neighbor had gotten curious during a bad trip and saved it from certain death in the walls by opening the crawl space under the house. The place was a train wreck with cheap pale green siding and a yard covered in track marks. Too many people lived there for the driveway to be convenient anymore.
"How the hell did I get here?!" Mordred threw the lighter across the room and knocked over a stack of papers on the coffee table. "This place is disgusting!"
"Tell me about it," I said.
"If I moved to North Carolina like my dad wants, he'll give me a big job in his company."
Mordred was a Patel. One of those Patels. His parents came from India, opened a gas station, opened another gas station, bought stocks, sold stocks, bought houses, sold houses, and were pretty much rolling in it based solely on entrepreneurship. They were retired. They lived on interest and the machine they'd created that was so well oiled it could run on its own now.
"Why don't you do that? Why don't you move? You're not doing anything here."
"I'm supposed to go back to school. I need some more classes."
"You almost finished that Pre-med degree, didn't you? Why don't you just take the two classes you need to be done with that and go home triumphant?"
"I WOULD if I had the MONEY."
"Sorry..."
When I first met Mordred he boasted about how his Dad had given him money for college and he was living off it and having a blast. He bought me drinks that night. He talked about how he'd gone to India on the money, and how beautiful it was.
There wasn't any money left. Instead, there was Mordred who liked oxycontin, lived in a crummy apartment, barely made rent, and begged money off his female cousins. There were many of them, and they all fell for his sweet soft voice.
"I need a job." He clicked away at the computer.
"Yes. You do."
"I wish gambling was really this easy. And risk free. I'd be rolling in it. Look, I just raised my total to like 3 million."
"Did you shop your resume around today?"
"Yes, I did."
"Anything promising?" I was playing with the fringe on my jeans again.
"NO, because I'm not a degree holder yet."
"Why don't you look for something else? To tide you over? So you can pay rent?"
He sighed in frustration, dismissing my question.
"I worked at a flippin pet store when teaching didn't work out the first time. And I was even a degree holder then."
"I'm not working at a McDonald's." Click, click. "YES! Six million. I doubled up."
"...you gotta do what you gotta do sometimes. I'm just saying."
He turned suddenly in the chair.
"I don't deserve that, you know. I am better than that. Don't you see? I should be making bank right now. Did you know I used to just get on a plane and go where ever I wanted? Whenever I wanted?"
"You can't do that until whatever you're doing is like super established. Great jobs don't just fall in your lap."
"I told you, I've already shopped around the entire mid-state area. I'd drive two hours for a job like that."
I sat quietly, my eyebrows raised. He was so defensive.
"Oh my God. You are so stupid. You don't even know who I am."
"No," I said quietly, "but I'll tell you what I see."
"Seriously? Oh my God. Get out. Get the fuck out of my house."
"I don't mean it that way. I want to help you!"
"By doing what? You just want to make yourself feel better, that's all."
"Mordred, stop taking drugs, stop dealing drugs, stop drinking, and then see how your life is!"
"Don't you even fucking know why I do those things? Its so I don't have to think about this."
"Well guess what, you'll never get out of it if you don't think."
"Don't you think I know that! It's not like I'm not trying!" He stood up and went into the kitchen. "Besides," he helled back. "I freaking OWN ten percent of my Dad's company. I can do what I want. It just so happens that I wanted to finish school."
"No, you wanted to forget how much your life sucks."
He came back in with a beer in his hand. "You know my brother is in med school right now?" He seemed calmer somehow. "And my cousin owns two Subway locations. It costs a couple thousand to get into that, but once you're in its bank. All the way. Somebody just needs to give me a job."
"You need to find them so they can give it to you, you know. You can't sit here waiting for them to call."
"I KNOW."
"Can I just tell you one thing? You do realize that you aren't entitled to anything you don't earn."
"I earned it all!"
"How?"
"I was there with them when they bought all that. When they started the company. I was part of that. I swept the floor after school. I worked the registers. I deserve what they have, too."
"Mordred, how much does a cashier make? Or a janitor?"
"O my god. I'm not even going to answer this. You're stupid."
He was a seventeen year old brat trapped in a twenty-four-year-old's well developed, if emaciated, body. And his parents had created the nightmare. We stopped hanging out because I was consistently working an 8 to 5 and I couldn't stand talking to him on my lunch break and hearing him yawn and stretch getting out of that nasty bed. Or excuse me, mattress.
"Call me when you get a job. Call me when you don't do drugs."
"You're a schizo, you know that? You are schizophrenic."
"I was trying to help you, but nobody can help you but yourself. I learned that. Its time you did, too. Stop yelling at your mom on the phone and get help."
"I don't need to listen to this shit. You don't even know who I am."
He sounded like a broken record. Berating me for trying to be his friend.
He called me crying two weeks later saying he had gotten a job. He hadn't started yet. I knew he wouldn't. He said he didn't want to move, but he needed to at least move on. A month later he called me and asked me to his going away party at the Indian restaurant less than a block from where I worked. I didn't go. I really wanted him to leave town.
Still, I wonder if he ever made anything of himself. I'm actually not sure he would allow himself to, with that attitude.
Attitude is everything, friends. It comes with ownership and maturity.
Unfortunately you won't ever understand what your parents and teachers say when they go, "You've got a bad attitude, Missy! You need to adjust that right now."
Yeah, you'll think, I'm angry. So what.
Or maybe you'll say "Oh. my. god. You're so stupid. You don't even know who I am."
But its funny, see, because when you say this, you usually don't even know who you are either!
I really hope it wasn't too late for Mordred. But I don't think I'll ever venture calling him to find out.
"Little do I know, huh?" I pulled at the frayed seam on my jacket. "I'm hangin out with one of the cool kids."
Mordred was getting sentimental and sad. He wouldn't feel that way for long. He'd start feeling angry or something within a few minutes. I didn't really want to fight the battle anymore. I was tired of telling him what he knew deep down was true.
Mordred needed to get up off his bony little butt and do something with himself.
"You wanna go get a hamburger?" His eyes had more light in them this time.
"Sure."
Two hours later he was pissed at me, and probably a little high. I told him not to take that much, but its hard to tell someone that when you've hardly ever taken the stuff yourself.
He sat in the rolling chair in front of his computer. The back on the chair was broken, so he had to hunch forward. He stared at the screen and opened a poker game. He didn't even say anything to me when I turned on the tv.
There were lots of things in Mordred's apartment that were broken. The kitchen smelled like rotten food. The cracked linoleum hadn't been replaced since 1972. The windows weren't draft proof. There was a small pile of ash in the corner of his bedroom where something had caught fire once. The mattress was laying on the floor set on an ancient box spring. There were faded print sheets stapled to the window casings like super ghetto drapes. A globe light fixture was used as an ash tray. The cheaply constructed add-on bathroom hadn't been cleaned since he'd moved in. There were moldy spots all over the ceiling in there because the construction hadn't been added with enough ventilation. I had never seen the other two apartments that made up the old house he lived in. It was built in 1920 and there were parts of it that made it seem old and beautiful. But overall it was a sad sight when Mordred was living in it. The hardwood in his apartment had been painted green, and sometimes, only sometimes, you could hear what for weeks we had thought was a rat trapped in the apartment walls. It turned out to be a squirrel. Luckily Mordred's pot dealer neighbor had gotten curious during a bad trip and saved it from certain death in the walls by opening the crawl space under the house. The place was a train wreck with cheap pale green siding and a yard covered in track marks. Too many people lived there for the driveway to be convenient anymore.
"How the hell did I get here?!" Mordred threw the lighter across the room and knocked over a stack of papers on the coffee table. "This place is disgusting!"
"Tell me about it," I said.
"If I moved to North Carolina like my dad wants, he'll give me a big job in his company."
Mordred was a Patel. One of those Patels. His parents came from India, opened a gas station, opened another gas station, bought stocks, sold stocks, bought houses, sold houses, and were pretty much rolling in it based solely on entrepreneurship. They were retired. They lived on interest and the machine they'd created that was so well oiled it could run on its own now.
"Why don't you do that? Why don't you move? You're not doing anything here."
"I'm supposed to go back to school. I need some more classes."
"You almost finished that Pre-med degree, didn't you? Why don't you just take the two classes you need to be done with that and go home triumphant?"
"I WOULD if I had the MONEY."
"Sorry..."
When I first met Mordred he boasted about how his Dad had given him money for college and he was living off it and having a blast. He bought me drinks that night. He talked about how he'd gone to India on the money, and how beautiful it was.
There wasn't any money left. Instead, there was Mordred who liked oxycontin, lived in a crummy apartment, barely made rent, and begged money off his female cousins. There were many of them, and they all fell for his sweet soft voice.
"I need a job." He clicked away at the computer.
"Yes. You do."
"I wish gambling was really this easy. And risk free. I'd be rolling in it. Look, I just raised my total to like 3 million."
"Did you shop your resume around today?"
"Yes, I did."
"Anything promising?" I was playing with the fringe on my jeans again.
"NO, because I'm not a degree holder yet."
"Why don't you look for something else? To tide you over? So you can pay rent?"
He sighed in frustration, dismissing my question.
"I worked at a flippin pet store when teaching didn't work out the first time. And I was even a degree holder then."
"I'm not working at a McDonald's." Click, click. "YES! Six million. I doubled up."
"...you gotta do what you gotta do sometimes. I'm just saying."
He turned suddenly in the chair.
"I don't deserve that, you know. I am better than that. Don't you see? I should be making bank right now. Did you know I used to just get on a plane and go where ever I wanted? Whenever I wanted?"
"You can't do that until whatever you're doing is like super established. Great jobs don't just fall in your lap."
"I told you, I've already shopped around the entire mid-state area. I'd drive two hours for a job like that."
I sat quietly, my eyebrows raised. He was so defensive.
"Oh my God. You are so stupid. You don't even know who I am."
"No," I said quietly, "but I'll tell you what I see."
"Seriously? Oh my God. Get out. Get the fuck out of my house."
"I don't mean it that way. I want to help you!"
"By doing what? You just want to make yourself feel better, that's all."
"Mordred, stop taking drugs, stop dealing drugs, stop drinking, and then see how your life is!"
"Don't you even fucking know why I do those things? Its so I don't have to think about this."
"Well guess what, you'll never get out of it if you don't think."
"Don't you think I know that! It's not like I'm not trying!" He stood up and went into the kitchen. "Besides," he helled back. "I freaking OWN ten percent of my Dad's company. I can do what I want. It just so happens that I wanted to finish school."
"No, you wanted to forget how much your life sucks."
He came back in with a beer in his hand. "You know my brother is in med school right now?" He seemed calmer somehow. "And my cousin owns two Subway locations. It costs a couple thousand to get into that, but once you're in its bank. All the way. Somebody just needs to give me a job."
"You need to find them so they can give it to you, you know. You can't sit here waiting for them to call."
"I KNOW."
"Can I just tell you one thing? You do realize that you aren't entitled to anything you don't earn."
"I earned it all!"
"How?"
"I was there with them when they bought all that. When they started the company. I was part of that. I swept the floor after school. I worked the registers. I deserve what they have, too."
"Mordred, how much does a cashier make? Or a janitor?"
"O my god. I'm not even going to answer this. You're stupid."
He was a seventeen year old brat trapped in a twenty-four-year-old's well developed, if emaciated, body. And his parents had created the nightmare. We stopped hanging out because I was consistently working an 8 to 5 and I couldn't stand talking to him on my lunch break and hearing him yawn and stretch getting out of that nasty bed. Or excuse me, mattress.
"Call me when you get a job. Call me when you don't do drugs."
"You're a schizo, you know that? You are schizophrenic."
"I was trying to help you, but nobody can help you but yourself. I learned that. Its time you did, too. Stop yelling at your mom on the phone and get help."
"I don't need to listen to this shit. You don't even know who I am."
He sounded like a broken record. Berating me for trying to be his friend.
He called me crying two weeks later saying he had gotten a job. He hadn't started yet. I knew he wouldn't. He said he didn't want to move, but he needed to at least move on. A month later he called me and asked me to his going away party at the Indian restaurant less than a block from where I worked. I didn't go. I really wanted him to leave town.
Still, I wonder if he ever made anything of himself. I'm actually not sure he would allow himself to, with that attitude.
Attitude is everything, friends. It comes with ownership and maturity.
Unfortunately you won't ever understand what your parents and teachers say when they go, "You've got a bad attitude, Missy! You need to adjust that right now."
Yeah, you'll think, I'm angry. So what.
Or maybe you'll say "Oh. my. god. You're so stupid. You don't even know who I am."
But its funny, see, because when you say this, you usually don't even know who you are either!
I really hope it wasn't too late for Mordred. But I don't think I'll ever venture calling him to find out.
"Oh, man I wish I could go back in time. I'd take state... How much you wanna bet I can throw a football over them mountains?"
1 comment:
Whoever you are, whenever this was; fantastic article I stumbled upon, thankyou for the insight on the life of a parasite and kudos to you for staying level headed.
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