Story from a 32nd floor apartment

The fuzzy static image came on the old TV set again. “You want to be me?” A bulging man, whose oversized muscles stretched his skin, looking like a Belgian Blue, asked the viewer directly, ignoring potential fourth wall implications and the true art of theater. Insisting, instead, on edgy performance. He had long blonde hair, sunglasses and a frayed sleeveless shirt. He stood in the middle of dancing, bikini-clad women. Now he was in a dune buggy. Next he was on some massive ship, an aerial shot, the camera fading away as dollar bills fell like rain.

“All you’ve got to do is come to my football camp,” he said. “That’s right, Champ’s Camp, where you can become a champ. That’s right, I’m six-time pro bowler Frank “Champ” Trout, and I’m hosting a football camp this summer to give you the opportunity to become what I am: A boss.”

The scene cut, Champ’s apathetic face came into view on a football field. A woman ground on his front, another touched his back. Champ had no interest in either. He held out a football, pointing it right at the camera. “You give me a summer; I give you this.”

Rapid text followed in high-pitched machine speak, as though someone sped up the tape, “Champ’s football camp is for 18 to 25 year olds only. The ability to jog, run and walk are all expected physical activities. Drinks and food are not provided.”

Then the screen faded to black. The man in his stained faded teal robe blinked. He had trouble sleeping since taking the meth approximately eight hours prior. He mashed his teeth in a violent, unknowing way. The sun was about to come up. He glanced at his open computer. It gathered dust since the mid 2000s, but could be good for writing an email or two. That’s all he needed. A note to Rex, his little king. Why not tell him about Champ’s football camp. Didn’t he love football? Or did he hate football? Was he the kid who cried after he was knocked down one too many times?

It would be so great to see him. Where was he again? Time to type up that letter to him on the computer, but it was so far away. What would Champ do? Maybe more meth. He looks like he has a lot of energy. Where did the commercial go? It’s awful dark in here.

He blinked, alone, turning his gaze to the hypnotic computer screen that softly glowed in the corner of the room. Outside a noisy world woke up. His siren machine called to him. The little animated waving flag, composed a multicolored “window.” He shook the mouse aggressively then began making strange coughing sounds, as though a car trying to start over with a tank full of bad gas. Harrumph, harrumph, ha-a fart. He clicked on a few buttons in the browser window then made a lip smacking sound. He squinted so intensely he showed his teeth. He could see his email inbox, but not any of the messages.

Glasses… Glasses… He patted the side of the desk, and discovered, in one of the cleaner sections, a pair of black, horn-rimmed spectacles. He placed them on his nose and blinked the screen into focus.

He clicked on “New message.” And, loosening his fingers in a way that a conductor must before picking up his baton, he fixed his posture and began in a series of machine gun bursts: “Rex,” delete, delete, delete, “Hey Rex, It’s your dad here.” Delete, delete… “Hey Rex, I saw this great TV ad that I thought might be up your alley. You’re into the football aren’t you? Well, it’s this guy Champ Trout. He’s huge. I thought, you know, since you were into guys” delete, delete, delete… “you know, since you’re into weight lifting, that it would be something you might find fun. Just a weekend or two around the city, and you can maybe pop in to see your dad after the try outs. It’s…” What the hell was the age range again? “It’s probably online if you’re interested. Anyway, my treat.

“Love, Dad.”

Off the letter went into cyberspace. He coughed and shook himself. An unread message in his inbox. Its subject: “RE: Skit idea.”

“Dear Marcus,” the note began.

He paused to ask himself who Marcus was. Must be me, he decided, licking his lips with manic impatience.

“We loved your new idea for a skit — a lost Army colonel who smokes a peace pipe with Native Americans — terrific! Where do you come up with these things?”

Is that a serious question? He wondered to himself. Still on the meth. His teeth chattered a bit as he read the next line.

“But does the colonel really need to shoot the natives after he gets bugged out and paranoid? We’re afraid that’ll get a little too real for the heartland.”

Because it happened, Marcus thought. Mass genocide. Something to laugh at? Maybe better than not talking about it at all? Maybe this is all we have: a little humor.

He raised his fingers in poised anticipation to reply when, a reply, “RE: Football camp” came into his inbox.

“Marcus,” why is everybody calling this guy Marcus? Oh, right… “Thank you for emailing me. The fact that it’s 3 a.m. where you are probably means you’re on some kind of a bender. Or coming down from some kind of a bender. I don’t think it’d be smart for me to go to a football camp. I’m 32 anyway, and I think the cutoff is 25, for young guys trying to play in semipro.

“And, I’ve read that Champ guy is a real dick. He’s under investigation by the IRS for embezzlement.

“Anyway, take care of yourself. I’ll let you know if Jim, the kids and I are ever headed your way.

“-Greg”

That was it. Marcus had started grinding his teeth without realizing it. If he stopped for a moment, he might have considered the dust covering so much of the world around him. Or the sheer panic that would hit him when he came down from the high. Or the anxiety that crept underneath nearly every action. Or the unusable kitchen. Or the overflowing trash can, full from Chinese takeout boxes. Or the last time that he left the apartment… When was that again?

But he didn’t think of those things. Instead, he thought of his high and how it might end soon, but that he probably had enough for one more hit, just a little more time away from the rest of the world.