From Facebook to YouTube, to digital screen television, all have been sheared off due to my momentary, insatiable piledriving, boredom. It’s like an alien that has been gestating in my body just waiting to eject itself to begin to terrorize what’s left of my mind. Oh for the love of Ch. . . t! Shit, it’s out! It’s off-kilter. Dizzy. Covered in what looks like Karo corn syrup with cherry red strands slowly, silently accumulating on the floor, it’s quivering in a post-orgasmic flutter trying desperately to get its footing to attack.
I’m out of there! From the office to the living room to the dining room to the kitchen to the back porch out the fucking back door, pushing with all my might and running like hell into the garage. I’m momentarily safe. My breathing comes and goes in quick, sickening spurts. What the fuck! No cigars? Where are the motherfucking cigars?
In the goddamn basement, you twit. Fear won!
Now, what do I do? The garage has a radio. But no tobacco. Nothing. Zero. Just matches, and the cutter in my back pocket. But I’m sure as hell not going back out there. “Go AHEAD you oleaginous bastard!” Break the bloody glass and get it over with. But for some reason, this does not occur and I’m shivering in the garage so I flip on the heater that fries my legs but doesn’t warm my body.
It’s the same slim-sucking boredom that I was experiencing inside when I had all my toys lined up in front of me like green plastic soldiers, but without any satisfaction whatsoever. And so little heat. What to do? No paper. No pen. Nothing but the radio. Plus this one has an epileptic channel control so I may or I may not be able to find a program that has something of interest to listen to. God, how I hate this over-loaded, information-infused world with everything at your fingertips except a DAMN CIGAR when you need it.
But I don’t need it. Do I? Hmmmmmmm. Now, this is an interesting situation I’ve put myself into. Ripley! Ripley. My voice trails off, “I. Need. You.”
But this is all in my imagination, right? All I need to do is open the garage door and walk back over the triangle of brick patio blocks to the cement path and enter the house, patter into the kitchen and run down the stairs and grab a cigar. There’s plenty down there. I just have to muster the nerve to do it. Or have I totally convinced myself that there is a goo-oozing alien in there.
I’m not moving. My breathing is returning to normal. I’m listening to the radio, scratchy as the reception may be. It sounds like “The Moth Hour, (NPR) a weekly series featuring true stories told live on stage without scripts, notes, props, or accompaniment. Each Moth Radio Hour mixes humorous, heartbreaking, and poignant tales that captivate, surprise, and delight audiences with their honesty, bravery, and humor.”(prx.org)
My heart is now beating normally. There’s no maniacal pounding on the steel garage doors. The window glass is intact. I can now actually hear the wind chimes. I’m sitting in my favorite chair, thinking about what my next move will be. I glance out the window and I don’t see anything. So the scenario I conjured up was asinine.
My hand grabs the cold doorknob. I turn it. And like Dorothy coming out of the fallen house after the twister dropped it on the Wicked Witch of the East in Oz, I’m met with warm air and sunshine. Nothing to be afraid of here. So get the motherf#@king cigar!
I walk over the triangular patio bricks, and rather quickly traipse across the cement path, open the rear door and head up the back porch stairs. I make my way through to the kitchen and open the basement door, walk down the stairs, no ghosts to contend with, and head for the humidor. I open the plastic sheathing and grab one of my favorite cigars. I stop cold. No slime trail at all. Anywhere. Odd.
I look at the cigar band. Had this one recently. So I scrounge around a bit more, sifting through some of the worn plastic bags with all varieties of blends. Let’s see. Had that one. Hmmm. Not now. I go through about 15 or 20 different brands and none of them pique my interest. NONE!
JHC! I AM bored to the core!
So, sans cigar, I retrace my racing ascent and lethargically head back to the office and find myself sitting in the same leather chair just as disinterested as I was before all that cumulative Walter Mitty imaginary shit that took hold and put my life on the line.
Pixie dust, ganga, brown sugar, Charlie, jibb, snappers . . . . Tempting all. Naw. No access. But maybe I will go for the potent parasympathomimetic stimulant and alkaloid known as Nicotine – seems simpler. It certainly is legal. Or should I just read? For me. A donut or a piece of chocolate would hit the spot – a plan that leadeth away from thou approaching apocalyptic apathy. I just need to get out of this BOX. Back to the basement for a good cigar. Then.