After my run in with those guys who do not wear black but who wear casual almost athletic attire so unremarkable you know guys like me couldn't afford to dress like that even if we wanted to - and I for one don't know that I do - well maybe now - but not then. But I can't so I don't.
There was a moment I got into the back seat of a car - the other guy - the interchangeable or random replacement was a sportish youthful type with such a clean shave I almost felt sorry for him. He was driving. I even remember his hair color and texture or so I think. The quiet one of the two was usually the driver. He was handsome this day in the textbook requirement way that guys like this have to be to be made into whatever it is they actually are. I call them the invisibles because they only let you see them when they want you too. And its probably not in your best interest in anyway if you see them. It's not so much that they are bad luck - they are though harbingers of not another person but some sort of change and it probably isn't going to mean for the better so far as you are concerned. But you never know and that is their capital leverage in this equation. The more I think back and remember these events the more it does seem crazy and unbelievable and that is exactly what they said would become of thinking, talking, writing about it, or just plain pondering it with ones basic intellect. And that is another piece of their capital over you. They can also activate your inner police man - the one you keep in your head to keep you out of trouble or jail or prison or that might save your marriage if you listen to it. But you probably won't. I didn't anyway. They can also activate your inner mentally ill self and send you to the cuckoo's nest that you won't get to fly over. They hold the keys to the Judicial system and penal system so far as you are concerned. Maybe not for themselves but certainly for the likes of us. This is precisely why I first listened to them and took them dead serious. Dead. Serious. Remember, I grew up in the shadow of my sister Margo's 38 year prison sentence that our entire family served with her. And she got her start with all of that in High School and at a mental health institution that in those days wasn't out patient. It was still then very much Nurse Ratcheds domain of feminine control and socio-gender revenge. So I knew that if these guys wanted to pay attention to me then it was either going to be prison or death or both as in Margo's eventuality. I was surprised at their casual sociability. The Men In Black days were at least for me over or happening somewhere else. They didn't even sport sunglasses. I almost remember the color of their eyes. Or think I do.
I got into the back of another nameless sedan it could have been domestic or foreign but it was bland - that was all that stood out. Unremarkable. Forgettable. And this is still a motor-city knock off. This sedan wasn't meant to stand out and I think for that reason I sort of in a mannish way felt sorry for these guys driving an aged widows unremarkable sedan. I believe this was the car park next to the River I grew up on the banks of. So they were in my territory. I think I even offered to show them around - which they dismissed without any dismissal. That ability when you are on the receiving end of it will make you feel small. It will make you feel more under endowed that you already think you are. It will make it all shrink up in that way that kills your confidence or what's left of it. There was no gesture - no word - they heard the invitation - they just paid it no mind with such an ability as only training and a busy job yields. So having started out with such a dismissal my mind wandered even as I answered questions. There was a bag next to me. As the driver was more sportier in attire than the handler that day I figured the bag was his. The bag looked like it was pulled off sporting goods store display rack - merchandised with all the items one would ideally want but could not ever afford all of. Socks so meticulously folded, A waistband of some sort of briefs or trunks, T-shirt rolled up, a towel or two... So naturally I'm hoping to see something used - something that suggests these guys are human. Something that has been worn. A sweat wet T-shirt or supporter of sorts anything jockish. Its wrong but the fact that their visits seemed so choreographed to someone like me suggests that in some Alice in Wonderland way this bag is on purpose. This bag isn't what it seems. This bag might be a test. Otherwise it would be in the trunk of the sedan or at least in the front seat. I gave the bag a once over - looked at its fabric and stitching. Either they live an upper end life and are so Military trained they live their lives as if its merchandised by their self discipline or there is something in the bag... I couldn't see anything to suggest it. I wasn't a fool I wasn't going to pry into it although I admit I wanted to. I checked the rear view mirror expecting at least one set of eyes. They were looking down at their phones or laptops. I suppose a lesser person would have ran off with the bag. I politely ignored it as it wasn't mine - this entire situation they owned even when absorbed by their devices. I try to be a man and a gentleman at that in general at this point in life. It wasn't my business. But I did wonder if it indicated a dismissive sort of default trust. That at this point they themselves knew I was a waste of time. And I knew I was. And it really cuts deep when you realize your very human existence is a waste of someone's time who is getting paid a wage you will never see in your lifetime no matter how hard you work. And they already by nature have the good looks - the strong slender builds - the keen eye and intense sharp minds - the jovial forced sense of casual humor that make life in the Midwest amicable. In short you rightly assume they are packing an enviable uncut gun as well in addition to the one in their concealed holster. They really are who you want to be. They are who you would be if you could design your genetic mortality and social fate with God before you are born and sent to this miserable life on this planet; a planet that you will never really see the beauty and majesty of from a life of retail and social servitude. And like in Plato's Book 7 of the Republic you will just see false and flickering images on your TV. They know your existential dilemma before you even knew it. And by the time you have realized it they have forgotten you. So the real question is why - when the dust settles is it impossible to hate them. They somehow bring magic - you know magick with a 'k' - almost pagan despite being so deceptively packaged in casual attire. They are physically and mentally larger than life. Their presence is formidable and yet somehow socially acceptable and in a way unnoticeable in passing. It's all enough to make you think there is some sort of master race being cultivated by these governmental agencies. My father was a WWII Veteran - I was a late comer to the family. They live in a class of people that I am not nor ever will be able to be even a janitor to. They have all my admiration after all their machinations with me and once they achieved that - then me and my admiration did not matter. If I hadn't been a US Citizen I doubt my life would have mattered. And I'm not certain it did. My only card to play was co-operation even if I was going to hell for it. It could have all ended badly - and in a way it did end badly - but it could have ended badly in a way even they would have thought was bad. And they might have given it a passing thought that that was a shame before it was forgotten. It all ended in a way I still think bad but they don't think that. My consolation is I am alive. So why did I want to blow my brains out two years ago. I dunno maybe ask them for me if you see them.
After you make your peace with their visits and conversations and what they ask even if they knew I would fail as I did - I don't know when the plug was pulled and they disappeared - something in me snapped. A significant part of my being was either lost or shut down. I'm not the person I was. I don't like or even approve of the changes - the mind changes and you learn not to fight it. You just have to submit and accept your lowly place in the natural or unnatural order of these things. No matter how hard you want to matter in this life to this class of people and above - you do not matter - you never did matter - you never will matter - they never owed you anything - they will never share anything whatsoever with you monetarily, or even just basic social egalitarian generosity like say at a cocktail party. You won't run into them on the street unless they want you to.
It's not objective of me to confess my feelings now for them. This is a blogette for chrissakes. This isn't NPR - it's not even Fox. This is my diary. My confession. Their sin. Their betrayal perhaps. My wrong. Its my brain regurgitating a history as I best can recall it. Its not all accurate because even my perception is skewed. They know this and its all part of their advantage. I admire them. They had a job to do. They won me over. The inner workings of my mind changed in time. I am someone else now. I do not approve of this or the result I just accept it. It came with social losses. I am a loner like I have never been as a result. It beats a prison cell or a grave no one knows about. A Grave no one knows about is pretty much my life anyway at present so I write this.
So regardless of your sexual orientation you will find these men affect you. All I can figure is they have some spray bottle of mens athletic brand fragrance you probably know or own yourself but they have infused it with something like a pheromone to target you with. If you are all straight then underneath the mens fragrance is some ovulating woman's pheromone that you will be unaware of - and whilst sitting in the backseat of their rented car you are trying to suppress a stubborn hardon that is making you feel conflicted just as they shut the meeting down. And that wasn't an accident or coincidence either. I am sure this is all fiction - I'm just trying to remember what I went through. But you know the situation. You have an embarrassing and continuing swelling in your crotch right when the social parameters are changed and you are dismissed and your heart is racing in your chest and even though these guys aren't your type or gender or not - you get back to your car and wonder what the f*ck just happened. And these guys driving away are such geeks that they are either oblivious or such work horses they aren't even getting a chortle out of the spontaneity of their work. Although if I remember correctly - they wait for you to drive off first so you have no idea where they are going - even though they are trained for this sort of thing and you are not.
So then you spend more time than you want to despite your orientation (whatever it is) in trying to convince yourself that none of this matters - You don't want to like them that way - etc. And you talk yourself down literally and figuratively and you go back to your mundane existence knowing that there is more out there than you will ever be allowed to enter into. And that you would do anything to be a part of it. Anything. And that you are somehow now a zombie and they can lead you to do things they never would because its your ass on the line not theirs and somehow from now on that's ok. Wrong - oh so wrong - but its going to be ok. Or so you tell yourself because you want to know more. You want to meet with them again.
Except it won't happen. Fast forward a year or two and you are laying on the floor of an empty room against the wall trying to cradle hug yourself while crying beyond anything you have ever cried for in your life. And its not anyone thing - its everything its the summation of your life - all your deaths of family and friends all your failures and regrets. Its like everything and yet not anyone thing - there was no trigger - it just hit you one day like an invisible force and doesn't leave. And you are rocking and crying and trying to cradle yourself for so long you lose track of time. It subsides only to return. And guess who is sitting in your living room smirking - offering you his gun and showing you how to operate it and where in your head to point it. For the first time in a long time since your last handshake you feel the warmth from his larger than your hand. That goes with his larger than your life. And you wonder if he is an Angel then which kind or perhaps both. But it all in your head.
And somehow without his help you manage a call and end up in an outpatient mental health clinic and they put on you on a regime of meds for a PTSD War Veteran for what used to be called Shell Shock and you work yourself through that program and get out - then Margo dies unexpectedly taking with her to her crematorium grave all reason to be here in central Ohio. And you put your dog down because his chronic immune disorder is killing you to watch. And you hold him for his lethal injection and in just that moment before the needle - he looks like he did when you got him before he became so sick.
And if you didn't love this canine like it was your last living relative you might just realize that your relationship with this dog isn't unlike your relationship with your handler who only plays the part of actually caring about you which if you are smart you won't let your feelings mistake for anything even approximating love from these kind of guys. Which I'm glad to say I did not do. I never thought love was in the equation - love of money yes not me or them or any such combination. These are the people who can and will kill you if necessary. Its a tough job but in this world someone has to do it. And yippee now I respect that sort of thing - mind control or as I call it life control is pretty astonishing in how far we have come.
And all homosexual disclaimers aside - although I was attracted to these men - and some more than others - I think I learned a few years back while traveling through parts of the world where being a homosexual is a Capital offense - I learned how to professionally secure my physical and or emotional longing or needs - to lock them up so that I could return from those places with my head attached. So then meeting with these guys - ok yeh they are really from top to bottom more than your average man in just about all the ways possible - so you just push those thoughts down literally and figuratively because for me it was a matter of respect. Of being a gentleman. Of not needing to take my sexuality or emotional needs everywhere all the time as some must. And I was at least smart enough to know it was never going to be an option no matter what part they were playing. And gosh it still was a privilege though to be around. When you write this much for no good reason you can embed those kind of thoughts in all these words and they sort of get lost in there and generally missed or looked over. And don't matter. So no harm done. After all I guess this is my side of the story - I'm writing it for them. I think anyway. I mean its almost little more than fan mail. Its certainly not a love letter. I am though asking for some Time as I've said to pierce the digital veil between us. Which sadly isn't going to happen. So what choice is there here. I have to delve into my mind and dredge up all the memory that I can of something that I am not suppose to understand and certainly not to be discussing with you dear reader. I wish to god though Dave or Mike et al would read this and I know they won't. They will probably want to stay clear in their mind and steer clear of the kind of information such as this that is well below their pay grade now.
And maybe its my ego but perhaps if this was read then perhaps something good would come of it before it just getting dismissed upon the first scan. Perhaps maybe someone in similar shoes as I was in will have a better outcome as a result. Perhaps the money spent on interrogation and to instill fear could be rerouted to favor the information services victim to help and not do incidental harm. What if for once the cat fed the mouse. Or what if the dog killed the cat to help the mouse. Well my dog RiP would have killed the damn mouse for he was a better mouser than any cat. So maybe I am a useless carcass with a maddening gut disease that is a drain on the system and I am long past due for extermination.
Never-the-less I haven't ever wanted to talk to someone to the degree I want to with these Mike and Ike's - And that is what spooks me most now - my desire in this equation. Desire for time and to speak. To see what is there again. Somehow Dave became the hero in this story and somehow I was remade though certainly not made whole. You can't give someone like me a frontal lobotomy without some unwanted consequences. So those add to the problems before that sent these guys a knocking. I just somehow set off a lot less red flags than I used to. In short nothing was solved. and I don't want to detail that because it will only make me that much more pathetic to admit. But this desire to have at least some off the record back door access is driving me insane. This sliver in the Matrix that they somehow can step through that I cannot. As it turns out I need them more than they ever needed me. And this is beyond closure. Is there some humanity in here to respond to this. These flares. These forbidden messages of craziness and help. These reverse assessments of a non professional nature.
Shut away in a tomb of a ghetto-lite 9oo square foot house long past its use by date. Rather like its owner a gut sick depressive failing work horse in a rusting tertiary economy. Too gut grouchy to be of any use except for these unwanted words. As always and again for somebody who wasn't really named Dave. Better than a celebrity. Genuinely larger than life Dave unlike anything a celebrity could hope for.
This is all probably less than fan mail anyway. I'm not even a lab rat human trapped in a digital maze. Oh for chrissakes this is like trying to communicate beyond the veil that gets so thin this close to Hallowe'en night.
No comments:
Post a Comment