Situation (A Short Story (Final))
James Blake
Situation (Complete Fucking Bullshit)
This situation is complete fucking bullshit, I thought to myself from the solitude of my roost. I mean, I don’t mean to sound pretentious or elitist or anything, but it really is. So I have decided that I am putting myself above this complete fucking bullshit situation simply because it is complete fucking bullshit. As far as being accused of elitism goes, I really couldn’t care less. The situation, being complete fucking bullshit, probably could not care less either. No, I think it enjoys being lower than me; sneering at me from where it writhes and oozes on the ground. It, it is a hideous mass of toothy deadlines and snarling requirements. It is on the ground, jumping up at me and hoping to catch me unawares. It is probably desperately praying at this very moment that it can snag onto something as insubstantial as my big toe or my talent in order to drag me down to its level. But I’m not going to be roped in to that complete fucking bullshit, no sir. As long as I think and breathe and type, I will not be caught. Me? I’m not on the ground. If I was on the ground, I’d be on the same level as this complete fucking bullshit situation. And since I am not complete fucking bullshit, I am not on the same level as this complete fucking bullshit situation. Therefore, I am not on the ground. Makes sense, right? I’m a goddamned genius, right? I should write books upon books of this simple, logical philosophy I have, right? At the very least I think I’m on to something, and that something I am on to is definitely not the ground.
I am currently sitting on the bottom branch of a tree about thirty feet away from my room. It is cold and my hands feel like they are stumps incapable of typing, but I had to go outside. I had to go outside because I can’t think inside. Inside, it’s too bright, too loud, too…livable. Outside, it’s dark and wet and cold and I can finally think straight while perched in the branches of a tree like some sort of gargoyle. A literary gargoyle. A devilishly handsome literary gargoyle that preys upon the very things he writes. And right now, I am writing about this tree. As I type these words, I can feel the tree rustling around me. It’s not just the wind; it’s the tree talking to me. It’s saying something like, “Oh, thank you! Thank you ever so much for putting me in one of your stories! Does this mean that I’m famous now?” But it can’t be famous; it’s just a fucking tree. Well, not just any fucking tree. It’s hard to see—half because it’s dark out and half because my head is full of fuzz and fumes and coke and god-knows-what—but my Boy Scout instincts tell me that this is a fine specimen of a maple tree. It’s not all that tall and it looks rather weathered, but the branches are sturdy enough for it to do its job properly. Of course, its job is to adequately suspend me, a laptop, a few forty-ounce bottles of Magnum, and a six-pack of shitty beer above the ground without any of us dropping. And it’s doing a satisfactory job. That’s an A in my book, mister maple tree.
But I have more pressing issues than some maniacal plant that’s bent on usurping my subject matter! The tree is not the protagonist, antagonist, or evangelist of this story. Not unless I want it to be. On first thought, I muse—adjusting my position so that my legs are no longer dangling haphazardly off the branch in a way that makes my crotch uncomfortable—that would make for an interesting story. On second thought, I retort, no it wouldn’t and you’re an idiot. It would make for an interesting tabloid article, my teacher would probably say, an interesting airplane story. And this world has far too few airplanes and far too many stories. But on third thought, fuck it. This situation is complete fucking bullshit, and it’s absurd to boot! Why must the tree suffer because of something the situation has done? The tree has not actually wounded me. Unless…
I crack open another forty. The Magnum is starting to do the thinking for me, I can tell. I am becoming clearer in my thoughts, which means that soon I will put them into action. What was I doing? I was talking about the tree, yes. The tree has not physically harmed me, but mentally that conniving bastard could be sabotaging me as we speak. Why should I let it get away with that? I leap down from the branches, taking my booze and my technology with me and wincing at the shock of impact which is both physical and mental. I have sunk to the situation’s level (that piece of complete fucking bullshit), but I no longer care. I am desensitized by it. It means nothing more to me than this six-pack of beer I hold in my right hand. If I don’t let it get to me, it can’t do shit to me. The parallel between the situation and the beer stands pretty well, I think to myself as I run away from the tree. I stumble upon a rock as I’m running, which infuriates and enrages me in addition to tripping me. I gently throw my laptop and booze on the ground to pick up the offending and offensive rock. I study the rock; it’s about the size of my fist, and happened to be jutting above the ground at an awkward angle. It’s a pockmarked gray color, which makes it look like any other ordinary rock. This is a good thing, because if it was special I might not feel a strong compulsion to hurl it at the nearest object I can find. I wind up my pitching arm, and search out for something I can hit. Unfortunately for it, that nearby object just so happens to be an innocent bystander. In fact, it is a poor, unsuspecting maple tree that I vaguely remember from somewhere else, as if it came to me in a dream or shamanistic vision.
But if I could control events already put into motion, I’m pretty sure that I wouldn’t be throwing rocks at trees. The rock smashes against the tree and, making a satisfying clonking sound, skitters away to somewhere else in the forest where it can no doubt trip up some cute wild animals. I look closer at the tree, realizing that my throw did no real damage to either object. If this were some work of great genius (read: a story written by an author who was deliberately mysterious and enjoyed making English teachers sweat), one could infer that the rock was a symbol of my anger, careening out of control and lashing out at the first thing it strikes. The maple tree, of course, would symbolize this complete fucking bullshit situation; standing tall and strong while diverting any meager and pathetic onslaught I can pit against it. But this isn’t a work of great genius, so the fucking rock gets fucking thrown at the fucking tree, at which point it fucking bounces the fuck away and off into the fucking woods somewhere. Fuck!
I sit down dejectedly and take a mental inventory of what I have left to work with. Two forties down and I’m becoming surprisingly coherent. I might not need this shitty beer after all. I quickly and fruitlessly think to myself, staring at this nauseatingly white computer screen. I know what I am going to do, what I have to do, what I was predestined to do. I just don’t know why I am going to do it. Grudgingly, I look up to the cloudy-starry heavens for an answer to the most important question. I need some sort of reason to throw these beer bottles at this tree, don’t I? I mean, if I just up and throw the entire six-pack at the tree, it wouldn’t be a very thought-out or scripted gesture, would it? What’s my motivation?
Then the alcohol retorts, what the fuck do you care? It’s midnight in February and you’re freezing your ass off while half-drunk and pathetically groping for ideas in that pitifully small skull of yours. You don’t need any goddamn motivation. You’ve been ranting about your quote-complete-fucking-bullshit-situation-unquote for the last X pages, and now you suddenly need motivation? Get a grip. Get a fucking reality check. Read my lips! You don’t need any fucking motivation to do anything. You just pick up the bottle, throw it at the tree, and repeat five more times!
“Why thank you alcohol,” I mumble to myself, grabbing the first bottle that will easily relinquish its cardboard restraints. What the hell is this stuff, anyway? I wonder, turning the bottle around, befuddled. Oh yeah, I reminisce, I recognize the label from the other night. Black Chocolate Stout. A rather bitter beer, I believe, and the winter brew from Brooklyn Brewery. I remember that BeerAdvocate.com gave it an A-minus, but I didn’t think so. Fucking critics, I gripe to myself while drunkenly standing up, it’s a fucking beer. A bad beer at that, I decide; definitely not worthy of an A-minus. Who the hell did those BeerAdvocate guys think they were?
“Fucking elitists!” I scream at the top of my lungs, launching the beer at the poor maple tree which simply sits there and takes it like a man. Or, to be politically correct, takes it like a person. No, fuck that, it takes it like a fucking tree because sometimes a fucking tree is just a fucking tree. All this goes through my mind as I see the first of six bottles sail lazily through the air and crash in mid-spin against the lower branches of the tree, shattering into tons of tiny pieces. I hope that some deer or bunnies come by and get injured by this glass so something else can feel my pain, I think as I pull up a second beer. Fucking wild animals not having any complete fucking bullshit situations to be aware of.
Let’s see. The first beer I threw symbolized elitism and pretention, which is sort of hypocritical on my part but I really don’t give a fuck. I toss the beer from hand to hand, thinking what this one will symbolize. What about memories? I think, ironically remembering that I was reminiscing about drinking the very same brand of beer last night. Fuck, I decide, it works for me. At least I’m in agreement. I grab the problem by its neck, take two steps, and let the shitty beer fly towards the maple tree. It smashes into tiny pieces much like its predecessor, but I’m standing too close to the explosion. A piece of glass cuts into my hand, which reignites my rage.
That fucking piece of shit tree thinks it can fight back against me?! I grab the third beer in a rage and, brandishing it like a baseball bat, sprint at the tree. Swinging it like I’m some demented Barry Bonds; I send a home run of glass shards flying all around me. So what if I get a bit cut up? This particular beer obviously symbolizes the pain I have to endure to overcome my scenario, and the alcohol in my wounds will sterilize them and get me drunk at the same time!
After drinking the last of the Magnum—shotgunning the last half of the forty like I know what I’m doing—I saunter back for beers four, five, and six. There is no call for ceremony here; no need to impress. I have glass bottles, and they are going to add to the soaking mess of abstract art that covers the front of the maple tree, whether they like it or not. But there is a problem as I start to raise my arm: it won’t move. I am seizing up, yet I have no idea why. The logical answer would be the ridiculous amount of substances I’ve drank or inhaled in the last few hours, but since when did I ever give a damn for logic?
“Fuck you!” I scream at everything, but nothing in particular; the words magically unlocking my arm and allowing me to throw beer number four at the tree.
“And you!” I continue, grabbing another beer. I am losing a bit of my aim, but none of my steam. Beer number five cracks itself open on the side of the tree, making an explosive splash that is more on the surrounding area than on my canvas. But it’s okay. I am a god-damned modern artist. This entire fucking wasteland of a world is my canvas.
“And you,” I finish, hurling the very last beer in the case. I throw it with a sense of finality, but I also throw it poorly. It misses because I am now more than a little bit drunk; crashing against another tree that is farther off than the original. “Fuck you all the way to fucking hell,” I scream out with firm finality. Then, calming down a bit, I look around. I am bleeding, I am panting, and I also appear to be very angry and very drunk. I shrug and turn back to my computer. Everybody makes mistakes once in awhile, and five out of six ain’t half bad. Grabbing the Magnum bottles to recycle, I look at the words I have typed on my computer screen. They do not appear to make any sense whatsoever. They also appear to be floating, as if on a sea of vodka. I shrug, delete the unfinished document, and walk back inside. What was I so mad about in the first place?
