A Walk Down Silver Sands

It was 2010 at around 7:30 pm. It started to rain. The early summer humidity is fogging up dad’s glasses and the windows of the house. There are a few bugs flying around inside. The AC feels good. What doesn’t is the family atmosphere. We’ve been at each other’s throats all day. The only thing we can all agree on is that it’s time to eat. But what?

Pizza. At least we agree on the type of food. Sis is bitching in the living room, so is mom. Dad is blasting the both of them to get them to shut the hell up. Sis kept demanding we try this new pizza kitchen off of Silver Sands and Blanco roads called The Chicago Pizza Kitchen. We had never tried it. “It’s THE best pizza you will ever have, I promise you!” she kept saying.

We’re finally in the car and I am playing with my new cell phone while hearing: “Strap her in!” “I did strap her in! She took it off! She’s old enough to do that now! God!” “All I’m saying is, sit back there next to her and stop her when she does it!” “Uh…will you fucking shut the fuck up?! I am!” “Does she have her pacifier?” “Yes, I mean, no, I left it inside.” “Well, go get it.” “She can go 20 minutes without it.” “Not if she falls asleep on the way. She’s going to want it!” “I said, shut the fuck up! I’m serious! I’m not taking this shit anymore! I’m the mom! I said its o-fucking-kay!”

At this point, sis isn’t yet totally off of drugs, and low blood sugar + mental illness would get the best of us—not counting what happened a month earlier when some loser doing drugs next to her in a parked car ODed and bit the dust right then and there. We aren’t expecting too much from her, just to get there in one piece and have a nice dinner. I knew it wasn’t going to happen.

We arrive, skidding a few times on the only partially washed-off asphalt since it wasn't raining enough to clean them off, and we turn onto Silver Sands. Just exiting the car is a phenomenal ordeal. “Joe, you had the air on the whole way and now it’s cold! Why the fuck do you have to have your way!” I, of course, replied in the spirit of brotherly kindness: “Hey, loser, if we don’t run the defroster, which requires that the AC be on, the windows will fog up and we’ll wreck. That’s not what any of us want, is it? No, it isn't. If you were cold, you should have said something.”

We get inside only to be immediately greeted by one of a number of college kids at the register inside a lawn furniture table and chair-equipped diner with those red and white, checkered table cloths. We seat ourselves, still bickering, and just when things start to calm down, the loud volume of a 32-inch plasma screen TV on the wall begins to knock around inside our heads. Soap operas in a pizza place--I'm not in the mood for soft-core porn. I can't eat like this. We’re ready to order drinks and when we order, we ask that the TV be turned down. Despite agreeing to do it, the waitress just couldn’t find time to get to it.

“Are you going to clean the Parmesan shakers again, Joe? Because that's really weird.” “God damnit!” I interrupt! “Up, up, we go! We’re leaving!” I managed to get everyone back out to the car. “Uh, maam, we’re taking our order to go instead.” I told our waitress. We’re back in the car and the windows are fogged up. Sis has to wander around outside for yet another smoke break. She’d nearly gone through her second pack of cigarettes that day.

Inside the car, we are entreated to: “whaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!.....” as little Kayla cried and cried--all of this to the comely treat of more arguing. Now, it’s raining. Sis has to hop back inside the car. All we need is more discontent. The chorus of chaos amplifies. I can soon take no more. I hop out of the car. In the sparse but steady rain, I take a walk down Silver Sands. The occasional bus splashing a puddle of water on my ankles is a small price to pay for the comfort of silence with the smell of tailpipe smog and rain with pain from a degenerative left foot.

I am picked up after 15 minutes, nearly soaking wet. We turn around and head back to the pizza place to pick up our now-ready orders. Strangely, everyone is starting to calm down. “Mmmmmm” sis says, biting into a slice of her own pepperoni in the back seat. “Go on, try it, Joe!” I reluctantly and clumsily maneuver my box to the top of the stack, pry it open, and finagle a small chunk of the Italian sausage into my mouth.

Sis was so right. There aren’t words for how good this is. Sis was now back in my good graces, despite it all.

It takes a few years to realize it, and some realize it quicker than others, but it bears repeating that life is for the living. Like this pizza place, we’re always looking to score satisfaction on destinations. We’ll be happy when we get on vacation, not when we come back. We can’t wait till girlfriend, friend, family, etc. comes over and then we’ll be happy. But life is for the living. Setting goals implies transition, and transition will entail varying degrees of disappointment.

Getting to where you want to be will involve dealing with the unlikables. And then I stop and think, if I had no such BS in my life, would I miss it? The answer is NO! I’d be happy, but we’ll take it in order to get to that next destination, to that next stop on the way to happiness.

And then I rethink my earlier statement. Some of my fondest memories are nestled into bad ones. This summer’s trip to North Padre Island was fun, but the coolest thing about it is that it stays in my memory because of other reasons. That horrible sunburn and mom and dad's comments are what I remember: “Why are you hiding our wallets? We’re on vacation! We're coming back after we swim.” My reply: “Because I’m in the security field. It only takes 30 seconds for a desperate maintenance man to come in and grab something and split.” My anxiety somehow added to the experience of the trip. And yes, finally biting into that delicious pizza was appreciated all the more by the experience coming before it.

Take someone without goals or destinations and you'll notice how that same person is an unhappy one. And think of everyone you know with lottery fantasies (which is everyone). Look at how different they proclaim their lives would be with loads and loads of beautiful green money. Being debt free, new cars, new houses, hookers - slaves, or rather, personal assistants - etc. all of it is an indication of goals and having or doing something more.

And then I look at my dull life and play the same game with myself. How different would my life be? Well, new stuff is a for-sure deal, but ultimately, my life wouldn’t change. I only want to see a few places. I don’t have lofty goals or business ventures, nothing to propel me forward. Only the novelty of cool shit and writing can sustain me—and that for the next few years. Writers are the unhappiest people on the planet, guaranteed. And they always will be because they see and think on things they shouldn't. But they can't help it.

This life has almost nothing for my type now. Nothing you can ever do will have any lasting satisfaction. It’s all about moving to some new form of titillation, some new amusement that we’ll get tired of quickly. And whether it's an experience or a thing, it matters little. You’re supposed to be happy because you’re part of the journey - part of change - but then, that’s just more nonsense from life-forms who are still trying to reach out to find real meaning.

They say it’s the little things of life that make us or break us. I’ve thought so, too. But what the fuck does that mean when, in eternity, a long life and a short one are the same? I’ve got to get better at living in the moment. That’s what everyone else is doing. That’s why most of my peers go to bars and drink and go to work hung-over.

Most people don’t think about this shit. They just do it and get whatever pleasure out of it they can. They only know what pleases them and that is what occupies their minds. The smarter people think about these things and are unhappy while the semi-smart refuse to think about them because they are afraid of becoming unhappy. Watch The Road (2009) and you’ll know what I mean.

(JH)

Posted in joe's essays