God hates us all.
The Boomer-rama Halloween Extravaganza goes down tomorrow night and omg says he we won’t be there, said it about seven times within the span of ten minutes to everyone sitting in the Gathering Place. Everyone nodded, yeah yeah, wandered away from the toxic effect of his persistent perseverance, leaving me alone with a dummy on loop.
Bored, sitting directly across from him, I asked, “Why aren’t you going to be at the party?” He’d made such a big deal out his own leaving out a few weeks back, fully funding his own going-away party, so I was curious why he’d skip this bfd.
With a stumbling cadence, “There’ssh shum folksh I don’t esh-shakley get along with around here.”
I knew of one he was referring to but was unaware of other people he had issues with. “Care to tell me who these people are?”
“Not sayin nuthin. Thash between me n them.”
“Why not ignore those folks? Have a good time and just steer clear of people you don’t get along with. I've been in that situation, it's easy enough to do.”
He poked his chin out, no teeth in his jaw to leash in the bottom of his face, “I got my reashons for shtayin away.”
“Sounds chickenshit, bro.” It made sense that he wouldn’t want to pay the entrance fee since he’d be stumbling shitfaced by the time the party started rolling—not much bang for your buck—and maybe the ill will he shares with certain residents is valid (there’s a dozen people living here) but fuck, life’s too short to not confront assholes or whatever demons are dragging you down.
I wonder about his demons. Pretty much noon every day, cracks open his Budweiser, lights his cigarette, turns on his Rammstein/Celtic Woman/awful rock mix, and sits there, just sits there. Doesn’t surf his phone, doesn’t work crossword puzzles, just sits there—for hours and hours—seemingly at complete peace with his beer, smokes, and whatever thoughts tumble through his skull.
He’s no yogi, there’s no enlightenment glow, there’s nothing. If he’s achieved anything, it’s that HE IS, THE MOST UNINTERESTING MAN IN THE WORLD.
Around four, he hauls out a 100-foot extension cord so he can charge his phone. About a month ago I showed him a portable charger for like ten bucks on Amazon but he seems to be fine with the extension cord stretching from his apartment—the farthest unit from the Boomer-rama cabana—to charge his phone for more repetitive tunes.
It was quarter to five this afternoon when omg was already banging into things, taking double the steps he needed to get back to his place, muttering with his Popeye babble. I mean, fifteen minutes to the traditional five-o’clock happy-hour start time and he was already shitfaced enough to be refused service.
He says his doctors told him he needs to quit smoking and drinking. And when our landlord—his boss—puts him into rehab, he’ll stop smoking and drinking. Like what happened with those other rehabs. Stopped smoking and drinking until the stopping stopped and then continued on with smoking and drinking until the next rehab stops it all again.