Thursday, November 16, 2006

My fault (pointless)

If you ask most of the people I've ever met, they'll tell you I'm lucky to get from the bed to the bathroom when I wake up. That without significant helpings of their guidance, I'd be living under a bridge somewhere, with my right hand around a fifth of blackberry brandy and my left down my pants somewhere. They'll happily let you know that it's a goddamned motherfucking mystery how I even manage to remember to breathe without them around to remind me of the human body's need for oxygen.

How it works when you do something on your own is, you'll get the thing ninety-eight percent of the way done and then everyone will come out of the woodwork to tell you how to finish it. Most times, the people offering all these pearls of wisdom won't know shit about shit, and it's your own fault for providing them with the platform of pontification. I'm not just talking about writing a book here, either. It's everything. Nobody's around to tell you how to start, but they're damned sure all gonna be there to tell you how to end things "right." The world loves to hear itself speak. It loves to hear itself giving advice. You don't even have to take this damned advice, just as long as the world can sit around and listen to itself offering it to you.

There's too much the world doesn't take into consideration, though. Too much they don't know. There are too many variables involved for the world to constantly tell you how you should be spending your time. Sometimes you wish these dumb motherfuckers would just leave it all to you.

"How about Rob?" asked Johnny. "He'd love to get a shot at that."

"Yeah?" said the Random Guy I Wasn't Introduced To, turning to me. "Can you drive something thirty-five feet long?"

"Uh...I got a CDL Class B, if that means anything. Depends on the weight."

"Gimme your number."

"Uh...I'm...uh...getting a new phone tomorrow, so you can get it from Johnny, I guess."

"I hope," he said, walking away, "you got a clean license."

"What the fuck?" I asked Johnny. "Why the fuck would you possibly tell that guy I was interested in driving a fucking cement truck?"

"How can you turn that down?"

"I can turn it down because I don't wanna fucking do it, that's how."

"What?" he asked. "You don't wanna make money? That could be at least a buck a day, and all you gotta make it in is Saturday mornings. It's all house jobs. The only people who need concrete on Saturdays are guys pourin' driveways and sidewalks."

"It's not about that. I don't wanna drive a fucking truck again. I have absolutely zero interest in driving a damned truck for some guy I met in a restaurant. You give that guy my number, I'm gonna slash your fucking tires."

"Why? You can afford to turn down tit jobs all the sudden?"

"No," I replied, "but I can turn down jobs I don't wanna do."

"How can you afford that?"

"What are you, my fucking accountant now? I got this fucking jerkoff smirking at me, asking me if I can drive something thirty-five feet long, and now I gotta make some shit up 'cause I don't want some guy having my number?"

"I thought you liked driving," he said. "I never seen you turn down work before."

"It's not about turning down work. I wanna work. I wanna work a lot, but I got this thing about people telling me what's good for me all the time."

"Who's tellin' you what's good for you? Who the fuck turns down work? You can't afford to blow jobs off like that. That could lead somewhere."

"Oh, man," I said. "You gotta be shittin' me. Listen, I wanna enjoy my weekends for once. Saturday's my day off. I don't want to have to get up at the crack of dawn on Saturday, work all fucking day doing that shit, then go bounce at night. That's not something I'm looking to do."

"Why you gettin' so pissed about it? I was trying to help you out."

"You don't know the half of it, John. You really don't."

My biggest failing in life is that I'll lend a stranger an ear and tell a friend to go to hell.