A Quiet Piece of Longing – One

It’s not that I don’t like the human race. I’m not some maniac hellbent on destruction and malice. I help people out. I attend parties and I smile, laugh, dance, and joke. I engage in one-on-one conversations with friends. I can say “good morning,” and “how are you?” But the problem is, no matter how hard I try, I can’t connect. I am just a shell.

It’s like I’m behind glass while everyone else moves at a faster pace. When I speak, I’ll notice the lack of connection. The lack of feeling. Then I’ll just feel totally black on the inside. Like I’m floating. There’s no correcting it or wishing it away. It’s just part of my life.

I tried cocaine. I tried painkillers. I tried the gym. I tried therapy. None of these things worked. At most, they provided a temporary comfort. And that’s something I know a lot about. Hedonism. And I am a bonafide hedonist.

And actually, I once had a therapist named Dr. Rodriguez. He had graduated from Harvard, so naturally, I thought he could fix my problems. Our sessions were once a week on Friday. It was in this big building in Beverly Hills on the fifth floor. His office always had these signs with therapeutical sayings on them. I’d climb up the elevator and knock on the door and he’d answer. Then I’d vent about my problems while he scratched at his scruffy white beard.

But as our sessions went on, I noticed something misaligning. He didn’t understand me, or anything, at all. We were complete opposites. Besides, how was everything so perfect for him? What set of choices in life led to his existence rather than mine? Was it just factors out of control? Or, perhaps I was just an alien. Yes, yes, that feels very well. I am not even made of human skin. I am a lizard. I take what other people show and I form it as my own. I am a mimic, trapped inside a chest.

“Isaiah, what are the things you like? Any hobbies?” He said, during our very first session.

I sat against the wall with a dead-eyed look. Plus, I was pretty stoned. “I like playing video games, and I like dealing.”

He took his glasses off and stared straight at me. “What are you dealing?

“Weed. I’m a stoner and everyone knows it. I make three grand a week.”

“Are you currently doing this?”

Now, this was not a question I had anticipated. As a young man at the age of twenty-three, I had dreams of being the “Pablo Escobar of Weed.” I’d buy ounces upon ounces cheaply and sell them at a raised price. This way, I always had something to smoke. This way I always made basically free money. My clients would just come to my house. It never involved going outside once. I didn’t even have a boss.

With my clients coming to my house everyday, it brought me more customers. Everyone knew I was a dealer. And plus, weed was universal. More universal than something like cocaine. Everyone had tried it at least once.

But there was also a drawback. The police. Everyone knowing you drug deal can be a bad thing, too. I must’ve gotten pulled over twenty times in six months. Then the cops would drug test me and try to search my car. They never found a thing. But I was definitely on their radar.

“Yeah, I am.”

“And that’s a hobby? That’s something you like?”

I let out a lengthy sigh. “Yeah, it’s something I like and it’s going rather well. I make money and it’s all stashed around my house. I’m saving up but I don’t know why. I can’t tell if I’m broke or rich.”
“Isaiah…”

“Yeah?”

“Do you feel love?”

I paused. I knew that I had relationships. In school, I was always the one with girlfriends and boyfriends. Sure, some of the guys made fun of me for dating guys. But the chicks were cool too. And if I’m being honest, I was a little bit of a man-whore. The problem was that this would all prove frivolous and time-wasting. For, I was a completely different species cut off from the love side of things. Neither feeling too warm or too cold. A kind of muddy neutral. No fun to dip your fingers in and test the waters.

At parties I’d be talking and drinking and doing drugs. And at the same time I’d be hyper-aware of my facial reactions. Am I smiling at this time? Am I laughing? What should I say now? And underneath that, the feeling that I was inside a dream. I’d look at my hands and think that there was no way this was real. This is life? It sure as hell doesn’t feel like it. More like I’m famous and a character on the big screen.

“I’m not sure. I guess I feel something… but it’s distant. What does that feel like?”
“Heart palpitations when you think of someone. Butterflies in your stomach.”

I leaned back and grinded my teeth together. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had butterflies. I feel like I just stay at the same level of numbness. It’s frustrating.”

“And do you feel that frustration?”

“Sometimes. But it’s more isolating than anything.”

“And why is being so good at drug dealing so important to you?”

“Because I love weed. It’s what I’ve done my entire life. And I like helping others feel good. I just have to make sure I get it from a good supplier so it’s not laced. But I’ve never had problems like that because I’m careful. I test it all myself and I smoke it all myself.”

“And how does it make you feel?”
“More focused, I guess? It definitely makes me more self aware. But most importantly it eases everything and relaxes me. It’s nice to just smoke and put on a movie.”

“Does it make you feel something?”

“Yeah. All the time. That’s why I do it.”

“So, you can’t feel love. But are you currently in a relationship?”

“I am.”

I met my first, and ex, fiance at a book store. She was carrying a paperback copy of a real bad book, and I just couldn’t help but notice. “George Green? Oh come on, there’s so many books better than that. Try Marcus Smith.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Completely.”

“Well, he’s actually my favorite.” She said all cutesy.

“Alright, I get it.” I said. “You just have no taste.”

She burst into a fit of giggles. “Okay, okay, maybe I do. Maybe it’s just too advanced for you.”

I managed to sneak in a kiss and get her phone number before I left. I was a forward man. But Cassandra wasn’t a normal woman. She had dyed her hair turqouise, had lip piercings, and a thin frame. Her dream was being a surgeon but never had the money for medical school. Plus pre-med on top of all that. She had to settle for being an EMT and was in school for that when I met her.

She also happened to never get along with her parents. And her parents never treated her the correct way, either. It wasn’t like it was all her fault. Sure, maybe some things, but never the majority. And, being her boyfriend, I happened to hear it all. She often found herself at my place, always spending the night. Practically lived there.

“What’s wrong? You’re crying.” I once said. She had just walked in, sobbing. I knew I had to help somehow.

She collapsed onto the couch. “I can’t go to EMT school anymore.”

“What the hell? Why?”

She looked up at me with her mascara running sideways. “My fucking father spent all my money on alcohol and gambled it away.”

I sighed and reached into the cabinet. I tossed a baggy of a thousand dollars to her. It landed in her lap with a thud. “What?” She gasped.

“I’m a drug dealer. That’s, like, four days of pay.”
“Is this why I’m not allowed over sometimes?” Cassandra asked.

I took a seat and hugged her. “Uhuh. I have babies to deal with.”

“Babies?” She chuckled.

“They’re literally like babies sometimes. But at least it taught me customer service.”

“No way. No way this is happening.”

I kissed her. “It’s for real.”

She calmed down. All of this and I still had trouble with the emotion side of things. Oh well, at least I had done some good, right? After all that is what mattered. But pretending and acting for so long can get tiring. It’s strenuous.

Eventually, Cass would get pregnant. It would be a boy and we’d name him after me—Isaiah. At the ultrasound, it looked like he was giving a thumbs up. Like he was saying, “Hey dad, I’m doing good in here.” We had the picture printed out and I always kept it in my wallet. I’d look at it regularly and imagine what my son would look like.

For once, I felt hope. Isaiah was the only thing that mattered to me. It’s what kept me going. I’d imagine his first day at school, his girlfriends, and the girl he’d marry. Or maybe it’d be a guy. Maybe my son would be like his old man. It didn’t matter.

But on one night, I happened to come home late. I sat down on the bed and kissed her cheek. I switched on the light. “What the fuck?”
There was blood on the sheets. I grabbed her and practically rung her neck. “Cass! Are you okay? Cass! Cassandra!”

“Yes, I’m fine, you fucking asshole. Why are you waking me?”

“You’re bleeding. I’m calling 911.”

She looked down and screamed. It would be a long night there. She happened to be undergoing a miscarriage. This singular event had knocked everything out of place. Like a tower of wooden blocks suddenly falling because someone happened to kick it. The person to kick it happens to be God and the nature of life and being human.

Cassandra then got more distant. Spending more time away from home. No matter, she has her own life and is busy with all the things a free woman does. Then she came home late nearly every night. I’d already be in bed and sleeping soundly. Snoring like an old woman.

I started smoking more weed. I already smoked a gram a day. But now I’d have the rig in my lap and the blowtorch on always. Then the cans of alcohol would stack up. I was never a psychedelic guy. I stayed with the weed and alcohol. They mixed well together. Psychedelics were too touchy. Cool colors, though.

Slowly, our conversations devolved into arguments. Then the course of that was sped up. I was also losing money with dealing. Not too many customers and I found myself having to get a job. My life up to this point had been just awful. My dad died when I was fourteen and he was the physical kind. My mom had a lot of emotions and often flew into fits.

I just couldn’t take it anymore. There’s a reason that someone wants to be away from their life. A reason they choose hitch hiking and couchsurfing over a normal life in suburbia. It’s a lack of fitting into society. It’s everything you thought you knew being crumbled to shit. That’s why I left.