An American Dream

Sitting with one’s self is like fucking your own hand. It holds no real surprises, almost always ends up as expected and in the end is neutrally gratifying. When one is coaxed to add a third gentleman to the mix, preferably one from amongst the most infamous trifecta, the conversation becomes a trifle more enticing. At least that’s what Donald Greaves told himself as he swirled the brimmed tumbler of Tennessee whiskey in his hand. His friends all called him Don for short. It was that honorable, ever evasive, one syllable nickname that is an unquestionable necessity of the American A type personality. Don had never backed down from a fight in his life, a fact he made sure to remind his coworkers and clients alike. For now though, he was just another suit in too far over his head. Life had caught up with him. And so had his whiskey.

Stumbling past the marble topped island of the oh-so high class bachelor pad kitchen, he swiped up the keys to his Mercedes sedan. Twirling about as he did this, his hip smashed into the corner of the stone countertop with a dull thud. This sent his head reeling. It was pain that his nerves shot towards the center of his skull, but it wasn’t pain that got there. It was just mush that manifested into a throb, and some stars across his vision. “Fuck!” he shouted, to nobody in particular; and not because he couldn’t help himself, but because he wanted to shout. He liked the way it rolled off his tongue. “Motherfucking!” a pause, “Fuck!” He had wanted to follow it up with something scathing and perhaps more clever, but fuck was as far as he could get. In a blind rage now, he threw his keys at the wall. They made an unsatisfying chink and fell to the floor. More whiskey.

“Now where the fuck are my keys!? God-motherfucking damnit!” the tirade continued. It was all a production. Nothing he really felt, while at the same time it was exactly what he wanted to say. Bullrushing the spot on the floor where his keys had landed, Don smashed his head into the wall with another thud. This time no screams erupted. Not even a whisper. He set his jaw against the pain. True pain this time. His semi-functioning nervous system got this one right. Maybe it’s because his brain was so much closer to his forehead. Maybe it was just divine irony. Whatever it was, it fucking hurt. But he relished it. His molars clenched together hard enough to taste.

The cars motor burst into life. Xenon bulbs pulled the garage door into focus. Don settled his mind, and calmed his pounding heart. He punched his steering wheel for no better reason than to feel his fist throb. Again, he only got mush which was utterly unsatisfying. Pausing, you might have watched him fumble around for his iPod and thought, “this is a sober man, on any particular morning, getting ready to head wherever.” You’d be wrong of course. But that’s the beauty of the thing. Fumbling for his iPod Don Greaves was reduced to Joe Blow. The action so universally rehearsed and ineffectual that it comes to define humanity in a way that none other can. For Don though, the tragedy was that he wasn’t Joe Blow on Wednesday the twelfth. He was a wasted piece of shit plugging his iPod into the dash on a Friday, well, now Saturday morning. But as any good drunk knows, it’s Friday until you fall asleep.

Screaming out of the ceremoniously long driveway (Don and his drinking buddies had pissing contests about how long their driveways were) he switched the car into manual-mode. “I need air,” he thought. Windows down, tie loosened and eyes peeled wide—tears streaming, he shot down the otherwise quiet neighborhood street he'd become familiar with over the past three years. Trees zipped past as if they were one contiguous green fence holding back reality. He floored that fucking car. And, goddamnit, he couldn’t touch the tip of his nose or stand on one foot to save his life, but for those keeping score, the man never missed one shift that November night.

Usher shuffled onto the fifteen speakers surrounding the lunatic. And that was the last mistake iPod, serial number U214101SLG6, ever made. He launched it out the window with a vein popping thrust. Coupled with the speed of the car and the force of the throw the machine exploded on the yield sign Don’s Benz failed to heed. Failed by 60-75mph depending on whose rules you use for yield signs. The action relaxed the man a bit. Enough to clear his head. He began to enjoy the open air. “As the Wright brothers might have”, he thought to himself with some satisfaction. It was perfectly cool. Chilly enough to hurt at speed, but not cold enough to stop a drunk from rolling down the windows.

Tires pulling the silver rocket forward, Don made his escape. “Fuck, Fuck, Fucking motherfuck! Wahoo!” he sounded off like a child riding his bike down a steep slope. Just out of control enough to feel in control, but dancing on that fine edge that entices so many men to their end. Emotions began to seep back into the folds of his ethanol soaked brain. He dropped into third and floored the car again. As if the mounting G-forces applied to the thoughts themselves, they crept backwards, lost hold and fell off into the night. He merged onto the interstate and really let go. After a minute or so an audible beep started to sound. Max speed. No more. You’ve reached your terminal fucking velocity buddy. Everything in this world has a maximum, and the knowing traffic engineers, or congressmen or fucking Florida voters with ballots they aren’t qualified to use had subjected Don Greaves to one more limit.

It was at this speed that the deer ended Don’s problems. He never saw it. He was looking backwards. Figuratively. Stuck in his own head. But the poor creature just popped out, and then ceased to exist; transferred, during the latter part of the 57^th second of the 11^th minute of the third hour of that Saturday morning EST, into a mess of meat that coated the front of a newly wrecked one-hundred thousand dollar car. It wasn’t the deer that killed the man. Nor the tree, as the coroner later concluded. It wasn’t even the booze. The better part of 750ml. Don Greaves died ages ago. He died an American death. Some would go as far as to say he died doing what he loved. But that is neither here nor there. Don Greaves’ legacy, beyond the debts he never got a chance to settle, and a family who never really knew what happened, is a pile of grass on I95—A pile of grass that grows a couple of inches taller than the grass around it. Fertilizer, you know. It makes all the difference.