I give. Seriously. I am fuckin' fed straight the fuck up. Past my neck, my sunglasses, my hairline(which is receeding quite horribly, thank you). I give. And something else has to, too, or else... well, that's a question better left unasnwered.
Let's start with last night, when I had my knife open and behind me back waiting to feel the crack against my jaw before I sliced open one of the two Brave Fighting Men who were talking shit. Then I kept my knife on hand for the ride in case one of them wanted some more trouble.
MAn, I tell you what, I've probably carried steel since I was eighteen. Easier than learning how to throw, I figure. Besides the fact that knowing how to throw doesn't mean you won't get your ass beat down anyway. In the six years I've carried on and off there was only one time I even thought I was going to have to use my blade. Even then, the furtherst it got was from my side pocket to my jacket pocket with my hand resting on it. It was a three inch folding knife, and it was never opened, not that night, and not a lot others. Never had to pull it in any of my time using smack, never had to pull it in a bar, never had to even think of using it. Last night my blade was in my hand, open, behind my back, just waiting to cut someone. When you're outnumbered about five to one, having some steel on your side isn't a bad idea. Luckily the situation was diffused and nothing happened. This morning, still drunk, I laughingly told the story to a few people. Well, I'm not drunk now, and damn if it sure doesn't seem funny anymore.
Things would've got bad real quick I got locked down for cutting up one of Uncle Sam's Misguided Children(that'd be a Marine). Upon reflection, it probably would've been lot better to keep the blade in my pocket and taken the beating if it came to it, which again, it probably would've. But even so. But it's not a good situation to be in and a worse one to have decescion your way out of. IT comes down to someone's gonna get hurt and, frankly, I didn't want it to be me.
Then tonight I almost pulled it on a fat, mentally challenged homeless man who didn't understand that 'no change' means no motherfucking change, go the fuck away. Of course, I'm not a horrible person, I'd never attempt to physically intimidate a weaker person(much less a homeless cat) simply for annoying me. But damn, there are days. And there seem to be a lot more of them lately.
I'm tired.
It's getting to me. This life, my life, this shit ain't normal. I'm paid extraordinarily well to clean up after well-dressed, well-monied children. Honestly. That's how I view it. People come into a nightclub and pay their money for the privedlge of not having rules. And acorrdingly, we treat them like very stupid, very obnoxious children. And let me tell you, any power, the smallest amount is totally corressive, completely corrupting. I've watched people laugh and take pictures of a man who was in tears because one of the bouncers clocked him. He took a hit in the stomach and fell to his ass and began crying. And we laughed. In his face. Some of us, like I said, took pictures. I've watched a security guard threaten a man with physical violence because he insisted on using the bathroom. The customers are bad enough(if you have to, absoluetly have to beat up your girlfriend, don't do it in my nightclub, please), but the co-workers... man... some grade-A fuckin' hustlers where I work. Example, I work with(for) a guy who makes thirty g's a year on the books, has three kids, recieves welfare and food stamps. He makes forty gs in under the table bonuses and shift pay. And hell, that ain't so bad compared to the guys who take graft in exhange for just confisicating someone's drugs and not calling the cops, then they turn around and sell them at a discount. And why not, it's a hundred percent profit, plus the bill or two you just took off the poor bastard to not turn him out. This is a dirty, business, but there's degrees. I'm not in the dive where all the managers are on coke, skimming tips from the bartenders and barbacks, fucking glassing mouthy customers. Granted. But I'm not at the expensive restauraunt where are the managers have degrees from the culinary school. And there's something horribly strange about taking orders from a boss who used to be the biggest coke dealer(four k's in two months) in his neighborhood. After his brief career ripping rides...
There are reasons why my cowoerks don't know all my alisases or even my real name. There's a reason why I've never named the club I work at
There are reasons I don't talk about this stuff very often. It gets under me. In me. Possibly why in the last few months I've done/said things while flirting with women I don't think I'd ever done before in my life(I'm a oerfect gentleman, baby). Possibly why, last night, instead of laughing things off or talking my way out, I pulled the blade. Possibly why I feel somewhere between exhausted and keyed up to the ends of my nerves all the time. Why I've started using again. Why I can't seem to just have a few drinks anymore. Why I ain't fucking writing.
Now, I'm not big on excuses, and I am big on personal responsiblity. It all comes down to me. Me that's been acting the prick, me that's been going a bit crazy of late. No one put that blade in my pocket, much less my hand. No one made the same hands go a wandering all over a girl I just met. No one made me an asshole, but me. No one can stop it but me.
The tragedy is that I like my job, my coworkers, the work itself and goddamn I like the money. I know bartenders in this city who walk with less than I do and I'm a goddamn bar back. I'm the guy who washes the glasses and grabs the beer from the cooler. There are places where the bartenders do that and make less than me. It could be worse. And I like the bidness. I like the hours, I like the atmosphere, the music. In a lot of ways it can a great backstage pass to a world I live and breath in anyway. You always feel good cutting the front of the line at the club, getting respect knuckles from everyone you walk by, walking up the bar and having a fucking cold beer and a tall shot waiting for you, the bartender's eyes on your hands to make sure you don't try and leave any green on the bar.
But, goddamn. I either got to find the fuckin' balance or get the fuck out. It doesn't help, either, that the last girl I met that I actually met that I was both interested in talking to and attracted to lives two hours to the south. Who the fuck took all the cool girls the fuck out of the fuckin' city? Granted, I don't expect to meet them at my low-rent, shitty, nightclub gig, them girls are just for fun, but damn... Which of course inspired a little sumthin' sumthin' I'm doing for Black Heart Magazine and just to see what the fuck kind of stone cold freak will respond to this?
The only solution I can think of tonight, through the tired and the fog and the night and the coming snow is to write the first novel I've worn like a ragged heart on my sleeve for the past year. Writing keeps me sane and I'm in need of the salvation a bit more now than I think I possibly ever have been.
All I know is I better become fuckin' famous, because this'll make great biographical material for the 'low-point' before the big break.

Word.