If I haven’t found what I was searching for, it’s going to be the same thing tomorrow night. Different but same effect.
I get by.
And I’ll keep reminding myself I’m a great observer and that I know exactly what I’m looking for. I’ll downplay the fact that I’m still searching.
It’s been such a long time, it seems like.
But I’m bound to find what I’m looking for.
If it happened before, it’ll happen again.
Until then, I will get by. Since every day and every night is the same, I’m pretty sure I know what to expect. No surprises, and I’m still searching.
3.
I went to class.
Eavesdropped talk about someone unlucky last night, but what everyone’s hearing is just what managed to reach the mainstream media.
More about plan-of-study and stock market prices on the decline.
Everyone’s half asleep and/or half interested.
Everyone’s recovering from last night.
Everything will lead up to tonight.
*4.
No use resisting. Before it can start, you’ve got to sit through the “Coming Attractions.” The lights in the auditorium dim, and the screen flickers as the first few frames of the paid-for promotion struggles to commence. The audience anchors itself with snack foods and beverage, settling in for the night’s most anticipated feature.
Do you ever feel like you’re simply too content with life? Do you ever sit in some majestic club, with the love of your life, with all questions answered, with a million-dollar car valet-parked outside, an estate valued at five million dollars awaiting your return, completely satisfied with your situation and yourself, but you’re asking, Why am I so happy?
Do you ever wonder what it’s like to feel like shit; feel like you don’t belong? How does it feel to open up your wallet and find out you don’t have enough cash to pay for the food you just ate, or to have the register ring up “credit card declined?”
Do you ever wonder what it feels like to be that someone who goes store-to-store asking for work? Do you view the homeless as free advertisement?
What must it feel like to be turned down, rejected, when that something you reached for turned out to not be interested? What must it feel like to live under an overpass, dumpster diving for dysentery? What must it feel like to work a dead-end job with crummy pay?
Do you ever want to have nightmares while awake? The feeling you’re falling?
Do you ever think about trying life from someone else’s shoes?
Do you make a backup for your backup plan just in case it doesn’t work out? Does this plan “Z” have anything to do with suicide?
Do you often find yourself detaching from daily tasks, mulling over the machinations of the criminal? Do you ever wonder what it might be like to be someone else? Someone institutionalized?
Do you ever compare your life to the life of the institutionalized? Prison or asylum? Do you often feel the urge to do something, really do something, change something, alter something, destroy something. . . but never the confidence or courage to follow through?
Well if you answered “yes” to any of those questions, there is a state-of-mind perfect for someone like you!
Welcome to “Nothing Ever Happens,” a state-of-mind that allows you to find, above all, every occasion, everything that happens in their cities and your city, in their countries and yours, which leads to absolutely nothing. It is assured that your involvement in such activities can only end in regret, remorse, spoiled moods, and scarring that’ll haunt you for a lifetime.
In “Nothing Ever Happens,” you’ll undeniably learn to hate yourself, because hating yourself is the closest thing to an escape you’ll ever find.
In “Nothing Ever Happens,” you’ll be the same person in ten years that you are now.
In “Nothing Ever Happens,” you live the very same life you’ve built up for yourself, but now everything you’ve earned and everything you’ve owned will slowly spoil. You’ll see that valuable estate plummet; you’ll see that fiancée and financially capable job flounder. You’ll find yourself in deep deliberation, and wonder as if it isn’t your life that’s falling apart, but someone else’s. You’ll stand in line. You’ll buy the first ticket to the tragedy that’s entirely yours.
In “Nothing Ever Happens,” you live a life full of certainties until you come across a mystery, and whatever you do to make sense of this mystery only feeds that mystery.
You swear that the mystery involves a man and a woman.
You abide by the mystery in which a life is built from the ground up by the cash-advances on one’s dreams and soul.
You view life as a part of the mystery as it unfolds.
The mystery is rarely what’s wanted and is rarely what’s found.
The mystery has no true form.
It maps and molds to the mood of man and woman.
The mystery is everything you don’t understand.
Buying into the mystery, you’re buying into self-murder.
You’re trying to make something of nonsense.
There’s a mystery to every movement in life. When your life is idle, it’s more than likely the mystery ends up becoming your best friend. In “Nothing Ever Happens,” the mystery visits your recently repossessed estate, syringe in tow. The mystery is there to make everything better. Don’t be startled. The mystery is here to visit. Here to help you.
In “Nothing Ever Happens,” mystery is really the only reason to live. The fact that there’s something out there, something unsolved, something above and beyond the norm is enough to keep living through the civil stalemate of your estate.
How about picturing yourself later in life, when everything’s spent? You’re poor, but the mystery is there to keep you company until you’re numb and ready for the knife.
Only then does it make any sense.
The mystery came to visit you. The mystery is the only reason you’re sitting here, waiting and watching in wonder—in attendance to a show that seems to lack a main character.
Take some solace from the fact that you became part of the mystery. The same mystery that’s everywhere and involves a national infatuation with death, disease, and tragedy.
“Nothing Ever Happens.”
With such a state-of-mind, it’s a good enough reason to let deviance be our director.
The show’s about to start!
5. . . 4. . . 3. . .
2. . .
1. . .
And now, our Feature Presentation.
*scenes set in italics are considered optional.
There can only be three walls if you plan on having a window.
1.
I went to class.
Crowded campus today doesn’t help lessen how lonely I feel.
Not used to just being me. Lots about how it gets easier with time. Not with my kind of time. Slow time forces me to study every scar.
I’m scarred, but beautiful.
How many people really know each other?
See them together, what do they want? What do they really want?
Searched during class today.
I walked to and from class the same way.
Alone.
2.
Open wide on an over-emphasized trendy club on any given night. A mile-long wrap-around bar surrounds a dance floor full of attractive single women. Intermingling between these feminine rave dancers are the confident and brave single men with enough charisma and courage to approach the ungodly specimens of amazing beauty. The majority of the men stay near the bar, buying up as much alcohol as they can to keep themselves buzzed and busy while waiting to build up the bravery for the dance floor and the meeting of a girl.
But it can’t be all that bad because most of the woman have a man by their side.
Those at the bar, they aren’t men; they are boys too embarrassed to approach the opposite sex, too demeaned by what it must mean to stand at the bar to pull things t
ogether and walk the dance floor, making first contact.
The trendy club sets the scene with strobe lights, vintage appeal, and modern electronic music. It’s a familiar scene of girls teasing guys.
This is a club that caters to the classical modes of courtship, but everyone here is here for the same intentions, and I have to stress how certain I am of this, even if they aren’t.
This is the runway, the primetime. I get to stand there, swaying back and forth, scanning every man, waiting, as always, for somebody that’s just my type.
Whenever I hit the clubs, I feel optimistic.
It isn’t like the parties. A lot can happen in one night.
You and I, we’re here undercover from looking irresistible. Looking irresistible is the easy part. I’m watching the night unfold. I can see it now:
A number of things happening, from the sighting of a dating savant–one hell of a gentleman–right on down to a group of university students thinking they’ve got what it takes, really got what it takes, to be someone that can give me, or anyone else, everything they want. Kind of boastful, don’t you think?
But me, I’m not accepting anything less.
I’m getting better at sighting the patterns, the pleasures, everything in this pickup game we play. They have all sorts of names for it, but we’re all really just looking to be picked up. Wanting so badly, so very badly, to be found.
Those at the bar, they aren’t men; they are boys too embarrassed to approach the opposite sex, too demeaned by what it must mean to stand at the bar to pull things together and walk the dance floor, making first contact.
The trendy club sets the scene with strobe lights, vintage appeal, and modern electronic music. It’s a familiar scene of girls teasing guys. I’m near enough to be where I need to be if I find myself looking to be picked up and wanted by any one of these guys.
For now, I’m watching something interesting happening between two young guys, seemingly friends and mutually absorbed in the inevitable failure of the night. Though they haven’t yet tried, both have clearly dismissed the chances of meeting a girl tonight. They waste their time with meaningless banter, the fetishizing of discussion and debate. I’m not observing because I find them in any away attractive. Rather, I’m watching them being watched by a man that I’ve never seen before. He’s eyeing them like they’ve stolen something from him, and it’s there, in that glare, that I see a glimpse of something promising.
Might he be. . .
But I’m swaying to the music. I’m not supposed to be aware of what happens next.
Both of the young guys hold drinks in their hands like life-preservers. Sip, gulp, refill. They are dressed in current fashion, which does nothing for me but make it easier to lose them in the sea of clubbers looking, acting, smelling, and smiling similarly.
I have a very specific type.
“Duh,” and they go back to their drinks.
“Hey man, I’m just trying to make a point here,” and take a sip.
“So we have a murder victim, then what else happens?” Sip.
“The murder victim makes it impossible to move on. People never look at you the same way. That’s prison for you. It’s why Jeff’s life is ruined.” Sip.
“Duh.” Getting that buzz going. It’s the only thing “going” for these guys tonight.
“You’re not getting it.”
Oh this guy is really letting himself go. Clearly not at all worried about what’ll happen later. Moderation? Fuck that.
“What am I not getting?” Another drink bartender.
“We have a killer. Our friend is a killer.” Take a shot.
You could say I’m getting really interested in their conversation now, and I am, but not because of what they’re actually talking about.
No, I’m interested in the man walking over to them. Their conversation is drunk talk, and drunk talk is the equivalent to starting a metaphysical thriller an hour in. You won’t understand anything, but maybe it’s because there’s really no substance, just a smattering of ideas and a desperate attempt at trying to make everything connect together as one.
“Of course we have a killer; when don’t we have a killer on the loose?” Finishes drink. Asks for whiskey on the rocks having realized he’s out of cash and this drink will be his last.
“Jeff is a killer… I’m having trouble accepting it.”
“There are a legion of active killers that we have absolutely no control over, and no clue whatsoever as to their origins, methods, and kill-patterns. Fuck if Jeff is a killer because he isn’t alone. It just so happens he was caught. It doesn’t change anything about human nature. It doesn’t change anything about this or that.”
I observe the two young guys, buzzed and with their drink budget blown for the night, they nurse their last drinks like lifelines-in-hand.
“I don’t get your point. . . so we all know killers and those killers are commonplace?” Sip.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Choose any kind of sample, small or large, it’s still going to be a “one in three” scenario. If there is no killer in a group, it’s only a matter of time. The killer has to gain confidence while losing faith in humanity.” Looks out at the dance floor.
“Did you pick that up in one of your sociology classes?” Orders his last drink.
“Maybe, but it’s damn fucking true. You’re an asshole if you don’t believe it.” Watches two girls walking side by side, holding hands, passing by the bar and towards the restrooms.
“I think the real killer is a window into our lives.” Sips drink.
“The killer inside someone is waiting for the moment of self-depreciation. That would-be killer will need friends and family, work and hobbies, more than ever. If the killer lacks in any of those departments, well, better call in advance, letting the authorities know another killer is being born. Jeff turned to friends and family after graduating and having nowhere to go, no job found, and what happened?” Let’s the drink sit, ice melting, diluting the whiskey.
“Society kicked his ass.” Sips drink.
“Society is a filthy bitch, anyway.” Catches himself grooving with the club music and stops, looking around, pretending no one noticed.
The other guy gazes out at the dance floor watching the impossible features of immaculate creatures, those confident and culturally relevant socialites dominating this club. For a moment, our eyes meet, but only I’m sober and observant enough to understand what’s happening between the both of us. He could have tried to walk over to me but he lacked the hunter, the instinct, the confidence to do it. What would I have said to him if he tried?
I would have said, “How about a drink?”
And that would be the end of it because he’s broke. But this is all a waste of deliberation and time because he wouldn’t, couldn’t, never will. But the man that watches the two young guys. . .he’s near the dance floor; he appraises what he sees. It’s clear he could have any one of the women, and he probably will, but right now, something about the two young guys interests him. I’m watching the start of something that’ll end with both guys, days later, strung out and walking out of a jail cell, on bail.
“Check out that redhead in the white top.” The guy with the whiskey nudges the other in the arm with his elbow. Spills some of his whiskey in the process.
“Huh? Oh. Very nice.” Sip.
“Yeah.” Sip.
“I’m into redheads.”
“Same here.” Sips his whiskey.
“And brunettes.” Almost mistakenly finishes his drink, stops, sets it down on the bar disappointingly.
“And blondes.” Sips his whiskey, frowns at the fading flavor of the whiskey after being watered down by the melting ice. Abandons the drink and steals the drink of someone next to him. Doesn’t seem at all worried about what might be in the drink. Just needs a drink. Can’t be here without a drink.
“Except blondes.”
“What do you have against blondes?” Flicks a little piece of nap
kin at the other guy.
“They’re boring. Everyone’s a blonde these days. I like a little character.”
“So a blonde lacks character?”
“Yes, a blonde lacks character. Blame it on the media.” Finishes drink.
“You blame everything on the media.” Discovers the wrapper of a cigar in the drink. Takes it out and continues drinking anyway.
“The media has its eyes in everything. Problem is their eyes are cataracts. They only see what they want to see.”
Rolls up the damp wrapper. “So, you gonna talk to the redhead?”
“Are you?”
Shakes head. “You can have her.”
“Why? You’re the one that noticed her first.”
“I’ll find someone else. Lots of really hot chicks left.”
“What, are you afraid?”
“Far from it.”
“Then go talk to her.”
“You’re the one that’s afraid.” Finishes the drink and slams his fist against the counter.
“Hey man, don’t say that. Don’t make me show you how it’s done. You know how it works. If I end up with the redhead, you’re alone on trying to find a ride home tonight.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
I’m rolling my eyes. That is such a turn-off.
But then I’m watching the man walk over to the two guys.
I’m noticing for the first time the slicked-back hair, the professional demeanor, expensive suit, not a single shred of self-consciousness. The man turns at the last minute and targets the redhead the two guys were talking about.
“Looks like you’re too late anyway.” One says to the other.
Both guys watch the man lean in and whisper something in the redhead’s ear. The redhead reveals a genuine flirtatious smile, while the man says nothing more. He looks at her a moment before taking her by the arm. The redhead grips onto his arm and the man walks with redhead down one of the hallways leading to the lounge in the back.
My Pet Serial Killer Page 2