The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman
Page 22
“Consider the source.”
“You’re a dick.”
“Yes. The world is an evil place. It obliges one to be a hard dick rather than a soft pussy.”
“My God, you’re disgusting.”
“You catch on quick, my dear.”
“Do you always talk to women this way?”
“Only when they’ve piqued my curiosity.”
“Well! You must be really curious about me then!”
“I’m curious as to when you’re going to do your job.”
“Don’t rush me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Rushing you may actually get your heels to clacking.”
“Why are you speaking to me like this?”
“So we can quit this whitty goddamn banter! Now,”—leaning into the name tag—“Sharon, I know we’ve just met, but will you get my drink order please and try not to spit in it?”
That nosey bitch finally scampered off to fetch me a beer with a Bacardi chaser.
I swear to God, man—the service at the Road Rash Saloon has gone downhill.
So Here We Are
Here I am, too, beholden to be so.
It’s been one shaky, turbulent, uncertain, heart-wrenching, and at times, fearful fucking ride.
In my relatively short time on this planet, I’ve shared
1) company,
2) drugs,
3) sex,
4) workspace,
5) cigarettes,
6) alcohol,
7) air,
8) and wasted-time with some of the most disgusting maggots to ever slither out from under a rotting corpse. I’ve been beaten, sucker-punched, and defeated, as well as won-over, conquered, and overcome. But I’m not so naive as to think I’m the only one.
Haven’t we all, in some form or another?
Thank God, we have survived.
***
I’m pleased with where we are. I look forward to starting over. I’m happy to be alive and healthy. I’m happy to have my wits about me and look west to the future.
I am grateful to have my life.
***
I once had an uncle who was a career truck driver. He’d been in trouble before—ridden his Harley through the Army barracks during ‘Nam and revisited prison a few times—and at a youthful five-eight and one-hundred-and-sixty-five pounds, was purported to be one of the baddest men to ever walk the Earth. One time, after he’d gotten to retirement age and fallen on bad health, he gave me a bit of advice:
“Innis, there’s a difference between ‘hard men’ and ‘tough men.’ The trick is knowing which one you are before you lose your balls.” Me being eleven at the time, I had no fucking clue what that meant.
Cresting the latter portion of my 30s, I think I do.
Hard men act without thinking—be it in a fight, in business, or something as mundane as a spot in a grocery line. No matter who gets hurt, no matter what pain they cause, no matter the consequences, they’ll fight without rhyme or reason. They don’t see how their actions affect anyone around them. Not even themselves. They just don’t care so long as they come out on top.
They’ve never had to get up because they’ve never been put down.
Tough men, on the other hand, are smart enough to realize they’re not hard. Instead, they take their place at the table, scoping for trouble and doing their best to avoid it. But not backing down if it comes. They push themselves off the floor when everyone thinks they’ve been bested, seeing a foe through swollen vision and blood in the eyes. Not to win, necessarily, but to say, “I’m still here. Now what the fuck are you gonna do about it?”
They keep coming back no matter what happens.
In my dealings with people, I’ve met many hard men. I’ve even fought a few: from dirty cops to coworkers to “friends” to strangers in bars to fellow drug addicts (plus a few women who tried to kill me, but that’s another book).
I’ve come to find that most hard men are out of their minds with insanity; sometimes, it’s just a cold, uncaring personality. And through my experiences, I can look anyone in the eye and say that I am by no means hard.
But sonofabitch if I’m not tough.
***
I told you from the outset that this was a recitation of sins. Of flaws, failures, fuck-ups, and transgressions. And also, a realization of maturity and faith in bluer skies.
Hopefully, I didn’t disappoint.
At some portions of this accounting, you may have thought I was bucking for sympathy. If that’s what you extracted from any of these writings, perhaps I failed you.
Sympathy is for the weak. For children or the ones who can’t take care of themselves. It is for those at the mercy of society stemming from the misdeeds of another—a bullet to the spine or a kick to the head bringing brain damage, paralysis. Perhaps an extreme physiological circumstance such as a stroke.
Sympathy is for the helpless, the dependent.
***
Thank the God ruling the Heavens, I am fit and capable.
***
I want as much sympathy proffered to me that I give to the able-bodied world, which is exactly less than zero. For as wiser men who’ve come before me have said:
“If you want sympathy, look in the dictionary between shit and syphilis.”
Table of Contents
Copyright
Introduction Who the Fuck Are You?
Chapter One Like Father, Like Son
Chapter Two Those Who Left Me Weeping in the Fetal Position
Chapter Three The Drugs Never Have You (Until You Try to Quit)
Chapter Four (Man, I Need a Boost) Hey You! You’re Fired!
Chapter Five To Unnerve and Neglect
Chapter Six Another Day, Another Dollar (That’s Not Yours)