On Age and Maturity

 “Live steady. Don't fuck around. Give anything weird a wide berth--including people. It's not worth it. I learned this the hard way, through brutal overindulgence.” 

—Hunter S. Thompson

    I arrived home yesterday after having spent almost an hour covering the twelve mile stretch of road from work to my apartment.  The commute is slowly growing on me…slowly.  The drive is a beautiful Old South experience.  Narrow and lined by looming live oaks, their branches overhang the road drooping with the Spanish moss of the subtropics, giving you this feeling of stepping back a hundred years into time.  You pass classical country restaurants, farm stands serving up the quintessential South Carolina boiled peanut, and joints with this farmer’s market kind of feel.  

    But all the fucking nostalgia of my youth blew out the front door when I entered into my apartment.

    

    “JOSH!” came a drunken scream from the couch.  And suddenly I was no longer reminiscing of my youth in rural Appalachia and violently hurled into my college years.  Jesus God, I thought, I’m too sober for this.

    My two roommates had the day off.  Instead of venturing around and exploring Charleston, they sat at home and lost themselves to intoxicants.  The young one was only barely coherent as he sat on the chair stoned out of his mind.  Occasionally he came to just enough to chomp down on a cold bucket of fried chicken, washing it down with Greek yogurt.  The 44 year old woke up that morning about nine, he told me, downed a few cans of what the young one calls “gasoline”—tall boys of Voodoo Ranger, sporting a heavy 9.5% alcohol content.  Successfully drunk before noon, he fell back asleep until 1:30PM when the two of them went to Waffle House.  That was their only brave expedition out of the apartment, aside from a side quest to acquire more “gasoline.”  They related stories of having a hot waitress, but never scored a number or anything like that.  Meeting a girl and not connecting is no different than looking at porn: it’s something you’re never going to have and hold.

    I was in an introverted mood.  My former roommates in Myrtle Beach once explained to me that I’m not a true introvert.  I love being around people.  But at times I need to retreat, regroup, and rally by myself.  I immediately walked to the kitchen, twisted the cap off a fresh bottle of tequila and shot it home.  I needed liquid social butterfly.  

    They were watching some stoner movie with humor I might have found amusing fifteen years ago.  Goddamn, I’ve smoked so much weed in my life I no longer find it funny, exciting, or thrilling.  I’m not twelve anymore.  Stoner movies are dumb.  The old man was hammered.  He started with eight tall boys of “gasoline” in the fridge and by the time I arrived he had maybe four left.  So the equivalent of eight beers deep, plus the breakfast beers.  His squinty eyes were glossy, glassy, and glazed…so much so I could have shaved in the reflection.  

    What concerned me was how proud they were of wasting their day away in this strange paradise.  They were more than content being drunk or high and watching television.  Hell, I could do that in Laurinburg.  I did.  That’s why I came here.  To explore, meet new people, and live life again.  I don’t want to work all day then come home to the same routine I left.  I felt this overwhelming sense of stagnation.  The old man and I had talked for days about checking out the brewery next door, but we never made it.  If I was to leave my mark on Charleston, I would have to do it without them and venture out on my own.  The couch isn’t that comfortable to become a potato.  I didn’t come this far to go back to where I left off.

    The youngin’ went to his truck to hit a bowl while I sat on the couch and talked to the old man.  The conversation left me introspective.  I was worried, if I didn’t make drastic and immediate changes, I would turn into a 44 year old single man who drinks high-gravity beers at 9:00AM talking about all the pussy he used to have when he was younger.  He has dreams of becoming a stats analyst for the company, but all he does is drink.  He has delusions of hooking up with his hot boss lady because she asked for his number.  Dude, every boss wants the number of their employees.  They want to call you if you’re running late, don’t show up, or call you in early.  It’s not sexual.  “Whatever happens, happens.”  Yeah, the girl 15 years younger than you isn’t going to be looking for an overweight middle-aged man with a drinking problem working an entry-level job as a stocker for a late-night bang.

    He spoke to me in a serious, non-ironic tone, about betting on sports to get ahead in life.  I mean, I get the stock market…I’ve played it.  401K’s and all that.  But gambling is not how you plan your retirement when you’re in your 40’s.  At the end of the conversation, I just knew I didn’t want to turn out like him.  I hate to judge someone.  But I saw my reflection.  It’s not so much him I’m judging but myself.  I don’t want to be THERE when I hit 44.  I have a few good years left of my youth, and I want to enjoy it, while also keeping sights on my future.  I want to be a manager again.  I want more to life than a beer and a TV.  And if these fuckers don’t want to join me, I’m going to go explore it by myself.