Wrong or Write?
It was the fear of losing stability that kept that inborn beast within me, tamed, and timidly isolated in mother’s basement, over-analyzing the world, going mad, getting so afraid to take leaps and bounds into new territory. I was beginning to settle down, keeping a budget, guarding my fun with funds, playing the safe side, gracefully growing into the 25 year old man that I was ‘supposed’ to be; a mature, well-organized, self-sufficient contributor to society, who would diligently continue to uphold his responsibilities as a ‘real adult’.
Fortunately, months and months of untiring curiosity had eventually overthrown my fears, when finally, I decided that putting security on the back burner, and buying a plane ticket to Montreal would be well worth the experience. So off I went, feeding my inquiring mind what it was longing for, a breath of ‘French air’. I was riding the waves, instinctively seeing where life would take me next.
Among the many beautiful places that I had stumbled upon during my trip, there was a small bookstore called “Coup de Coeur”. It was there where I came across “The biography of Hunter S. Thompson”, a man who I had heard so much about, yet knew very little of, thus, engulfing myself once again in my curiosity. Thirteen days of roaming around the city as a free soul, while getting acquainted with the Wild Man of American Journalism, downright did it for me. The combination of my gullible mind, along with Hunter’s crazy life stories, was all that was needed to restore the youthful vigour back into my inner beast.
I returned home to Winnipeg feeling invincible again, double daring myself to do the unthinkable; taking a stolen wheelchair for a spin, smoking cigarettes, drinking profusely, and getting back into the reckless habits that I once had when I was a teen. I was once again, a rebel on the edge, and in all honesty, it felt amazing! I understood the psychology behind it, or at least had a grasp on the idea of why I was so drawn to the edge of my existence, and why I felt so compelled to do such outrageous things, yet despite knowing all of this, I still continued to feed my ignorance.
September 7, 2009 – Breakfast at the Nook (Labour Day Drama)
The small talk between Gumshoe and I was interrupted by a freshly served Spanish omelet served right under my nose. While digging into my flavorful meal, I continued reading on about Mr. Hunter S. Thompson, chuckling away at his barbaric and crazy life stories, slowly growing spellbound, to the point that I could imagine myself, as him. I would read, drink my coffee, and lean back against my chair, as I would imagine him doing it in the same fashion.
It was like a classic tale of Irony in the making, as half way through my book; four police officers walked into the Nook and sat down directly at the table across from me. Every once in a while, in between chomping on some eggs, and entertaining myself with Hunter’s stories of encounters with the police, I would observe the officers in front of me, taking mental notes of their mannerisms, while on and off, redirecting myself back to Hunter’s biography. There they all were, talking amongst themselves, waiting for their grub, enjoying their Labour Day morning, while I, alone in my zone, sat quietly, picking bones from my plate.
When my meal was all done and paid for, I walked out the restaurant with a bittersweet taste in my mouth, and a few planned activities for the afternoon in mind, but as I proceeded to the back parking lot, my afternoon agenda soon became tainted with an abrupt, and beastly idea. In my wicked imagination, I began to make the connection between the colorful painting materials sitting in the back trunk of my car, and the plain white police cruiser that had been parked directly right beside it. In that blood-rushing moment of time, all I could picture in my head were the facial expressions that the officers would make, when they would come back to their beloved car only to realize that it had been decorated in pretty pink colors. Unfortunately for me, my idea of hilarity had been poorly supported by carelessness, which later resulted in the officers having the last laugh, as they tracked me down 2 hours after my daring move.
No matter how you flip the coin, in this society, painting the words “OINK OINK!” in pretty pink along both sides of a Police cruiser is deemed as “Wrong!”
It was the second time I felt that cold steel wrapped around my wrists. They don’t give you much leg room in that car of theirs. It was the most awkward elevator ride that I had experienced in my life. Not even the memories of the mysterious homeless man with the brown stains, and bad odour in his pants could rival this story. There they all were, crowded around me, like a big group of angry fathers, raising their voices, pulling the intimidation card on me. “You must think it’s pretty funny writing ‘Oink Oink” on the car don’t you!? Are you calling us pigs?” Why did you do it!!?? I responded with the word “Ignorance”, which contrarily lessened the amount of intimidation casted upon me.
Room number four, nothing to look at but white walls, a sprinkler, and yourself from the neck down. You notice the simple things, like the little specs on your skin, or how long your toe nails are. I sang and recited poetry, and free styled about how stupid it was to spray paint a cop car, hoping that maybe if they could hear me, they would bless me with the same luck as my first arrest, when I was granted a discharge for reciting a poem for the judge, and a court room full of convicts. Maybe luck would indeed strike twice? Perhaps they too, would wonder what the hell on earth possessed such a brilliant kid to do such a thing.
After one phone call, and about three hours of sitting around, getting threatened to be taken to remand, they finally moved me into the interrogation room, where they showed me photos of my latest ‘art piece’. “Did you do this?” they asked. I was a mute, mentally wrestling with one of two options; the advice from legal aid, which was not to say a word until a visit from a real judge, and; the curiosity behind whether or not I would be granted a quick release if I were to plead guilty.
After about twenty minutes of doing the mime routine, I finally gave in, admitting to my wrongs, taking responsibility for my actions. It was quite obvious who the vandal was; red Honda Civic with matching license plate numbers, a tool shed painted from top to bottom, a pink can in the passenger seat. In contrast, I suppose one could say that I was caught ‘pink handed’.
One of the officers, who studied my demeanor throughout my moment of silence, spoke on my behalf, voicing his speculations, assuming that it was just a lapse in judgment on my part. When asked, “What compelled you to do such a foolish thing? I wanted to tell them that it was Hunter’s fault for being so damn inspiring! But I had the hint that they wouldn’t really take that as a rational answer. Instead, I told them that it was simply a wrong move on my part, and that in the moment of my wrongdoing, I had lost all logic. Before calling it a wrap, they left me with an opportunity to share whatever was on my mind, clearly stating: “now is your chance to say whatever you need to say”. Their offer had only sparked one thought, and that was to show them who I was, by sharing what I do, and so I spoke...
I use to say “Forget the money!”, with a passion
Back when there was nothing but drinking, smoking, and rapping
Laughing life away like there was no price to pay
for staying out late writing my name up on the trains
Never played the game, instead, I went against it
Raised fist and all, splashing war paint on walls
Breaking laws with a smile, momma’s lost child
Who use to run wild with a low profile
Playing at my own risk, paying no mind to the mileage,
Living like I was next on Gods’ soon-to-die list
But oh how it changes, how life rearranges
How clear and present dangers suddenly seem safer
Forced into a corner, taking orders, chasing paper,
Thinking to myself how much I really hate to
Go to school, getting so confused about what to do
Its like you go to class, kiss a$$, or say forget the rules
But son, it’s easier said than done
when we live within a system that runs on funds
It is the reason why those stuck up kids deal drugs
And the reason why sometimes we have got to leave the ones we love
Work hard, get rewarded, that’s just the way that some jobs are kid
You can’t be an artist if you don’t know how to market
Pardon me, for telling you all these bits,
But you can’t discard the facts, because that’s just the way it is
Do not enter, do not cross, do not disturb
If you know the truth and got the proof, do not say a word
Go to work, get paid, lace your shoes, run the race,
Put a mask on your face, just to make the next day
You hate this place, but you can’t escape it,
Infinite like figure 8’s you were born into the matrix
With not enough guts to do anything about it
So it’s best you just shut your mouth and bow down kid
I will not allow this unjust matter to continue
I will strip you of your ability to let loose
I’ve got strict rules, and you have got to follow it
I don’t care if you’re sick, you still got to work tomorrows shift
The hunt for the dividends will never end
You will forever spend money on food and medicine
Regardless of culture, religion or gender,
I’ve got your whole world affected by afluenza
You’re the renter, well I’m the owner,
The poker faced money motor joker/ game controller
Holding your diploma
So show up, but don’t forget who feeds you,
the root of all evil that makes us unequal
You’re crawling on all fours of this monopoly board
With your shopping sprees helping my economy soar
Take the house, take the cigarettes, take the corvette,
Take the 4 year art course even if you can’t afford it
It goes eat, sleep, work, stress,
go to school, go in debt pay it off until you’re dead”
Get up, get busy, get going, go hustle,
do anything you can do to get through the struggle.
Cash rules everything around me
C.R.E.A.M
Get the money
The officer leaned forward, up from his seat, took a closer look at me, and asked: “was that improvised?” I replied, “No officer, it was written about a year ago when I felt a lot more grounded with my life”. He said “I don’t know what the hell you call what you just did right now, but take my advice son, and stick to doing that, not spray painting cop cars. You have a better chance of doing something good with your life if you stick to that”. Suddenly, I could feel a sense of respect coming over me. The tone of their voice, and their actions toward me had changed.
After all the paper work, the photo taking, and fingerprint documenting, it was finally time to leave. While being escorted out, he uttered his last words to me, saying: “You’re really interesting you know that. I wish we could have met somewhere else” But in my mind, I questioned the likelihood of us meeting without the paint sprayed in between our worlds, and thought that it would never have happened otherwise.
Apart from being scheduled for a court date, and dreadfully worrying about how I would break the news to my poor mother about what had just happened, I was somewhat grateful for the experience, as it brought my feet back to the ground, and redirected my focus to more important matters in my life. It was with this indebtedness, that I shook the officers’ hand, thanked him, and took his advice into account. I went home, I picked up my pen, and I did what I do best…
Write!
