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the beautiful destruction

Monday, June 20, 2005

The Beautiful Destruction

Editor's note: The following essay is as close as this journal [blog] will come to having a mission statement or manifesto. It was written for an anthology I released back in January of this year titled Young & Reckless. I thought it may be of some interest to readers, so I've decided to make it available online (in it's unedited form) as well as in print. I hope you enjoy it.

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We’re crammed together in a car, speeding—like clowns en route to a performance that’s already begun. The gold Chevette that we’re driving rattles and clinks as we barrel toward the crest of a hill. The noises are troubling. It sounds as though we’ve left a litter of parts in our wake—hubcaps, bumper, muffler, and an assortment of nuts and bolts necessary for fastening important things together. But as I look over my shoulder, surprisingly, our rusty and battered car appears intact, aside from the occasional puff of black smoke being spit from the tailpipe. But that’s normal.

As we rumble along the winding suburban streets, the neighborhood emits a mechanical almost hollow feeling. Though the pseudo-sidewalks and artificially green lawns are bubbling with activity—children riding bicycles, adults in ridiculous outfits power walking, dogs barking, sprinklers popping on—this place feels more like a Xerox of real life than the pumping (and somewhat congested) heart of America’s middle class. But maybe all neighborhoods feel this way at one moment or another— small, insular, and sometimes inescapable.

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Our driver accelerates, pressing the gas pedal until it’s flush with the car’s floorboard and its dirty, cinder-infested tan carpet. The Chevette’s tiny engine is working hard, struggling to pull the weight of its four passengers up and over the sharply angled hill. And just as the rickety 4-cylinder reaches the peak, we each hop a bit in our seats, then breathe a collective sigh of relief as the car bounds down the other side.

Looking over his shoulder, Keith, our driver, appears confident, almost giddy—his day-old stubble looking like catfish whiskers sprouting from his chin and upper lip. He’s wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap that he “borrowed” from me several months ago. I don’t think I’m getting it back.

Deemed the unofficial designated driver, however begrudgingly, Keith carts our mischief-making, terminally bored crew all over Pittsburgh’s eastern suburbs. Today’s setting: scenic Garden City, a housing development located about 20 minutes from downtown.

Whirring past an odd assortment of ranch, split-entry, and Cape Cod style homes, each of us periodically looks out the back window in nervous anticipation.


Maybe they gave up? Maybe we lost them?

Keith suddenly swerves off the road, pulling into an empty driveway, loudly jerking the car into park as we each lunge forward like a band of top-heavy children tumbling headfirst to the ground. Slightly stunned, we stare at each other for a moment, no one speaking a word. Why is he stopping here?

A red Pontiac Sunbird, driven by a plump woman and her wiry male co-pilot, quickly darts past. We didn’t lose them. The Chevette, still running, is shifted into reverse. Keith jams the accelerator to the floor and speeds out of the driveway—backwards. Quickly shifting in to drive and spinning the car’s nearly bald tires against the pavement, he makes a desperate dash to close the gap with the speeding red car.

He loves this technique, the one where the person being chased becomes the chaser. He should have pursued a career in stunt driving. He could have been like Lee Majors in The Fall Guy or maybe a 21st century version of Evel Knievel.

The rest of the crew is now bubbling with joy, acting like a bunch of socially retarded goons on an unexpected summer outing. We love this part, always have (“This part” being the portion of the chase where we feel like we’re in a movie, each assuming the starring role of backseat driver—Turn here, pass her up, cut them off, what are you doing, you’re losing them!). We’re at once bossy and indecisive. I dunno where that road leads. Speed up. Hopefully the police don’t see us. Run the red light! We must be terribly obnoxious.

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As Keith navigates the twisted, nonsensical streets of Garden City, the rest of us just enjoy the chase. Gregg is riding shotgun, as always, his window rolled down, screaming at passersby as we motor along. He occasionally looks back at us, seeking peer approval for his hell-raising antics—of course we all silently nod: Job well done. Keep up the good work.

I’m seated behind him, legs squeezed up tight (remember, it is a Chevette), head angled out the window, struggling to yell and make a scene as bugs and the rushing air pummel my face. My normal spastic, shock-inducing phrases are getting lost in the gushing air—spilling out of my mouth and disappearing behind us with the smoke from the tailpipe. “Hey lady, nice nose,” I scream, along with the classic, “Jesus had gonorrhea!” The power walkers, postal carriers, and small children of the neighborhood do not appear to be impressed.

Seated to my left is our friend Jim. Reluctant to antagonize, he’s content to fan the flames, maniacally laughing as the chase becomes more heated—his abnormally large and sharp-looking eyeteeth protruding from his mouth.

The pursuit becomes more delicate as we close in. Keith carefully keeps his distance, trying desperately not to ruin the surprise too early. We always want the person we’re chasing to be shocked that we’ve outsmarted them at their own game, snuck up from behind just when they weren’t looking. So far, the scenario is playing out like a low-budget Hollywood chase scene—just as we had hoped.

The red Sunbird is still speeding erratically, its driver bent on finding us, her plump fingers choking the vinyl covering on her steering wheel. She carelessly rolls through stop signs, only slowing to inspect side roads and any other possible escape-routes.


But wait. What’s this?

In the midst of a rolling stop, the chubby woman’s brake lights pop on and the car abruptly jerks to a halt. She must have caught a glimpse of us in her rearview mirror. Usually, the driver will speed up and play along, thinking the joke is funny. Not this woman. And the timing is bad. We’re at a busy four-way intersection and our car is trapped. She’s parked in front of us and cars are quickly lining up behind us. People are beeping their horns, wondering why traffic has come to a standstill. That’s when the driver’s side door swings open and we see the woman’s plump, tennis-shoed foot plop onto the pavement.


* * *
This moment is critical: the moment when this woman, frustrated and ready to boil over, stopped her car and decided to raise the stakes. We probably deserved whatever it was she had planned for us, but I wonder what thoughts stumbled through her mind as she slammed her foot on the brake pedal. I’m sure my friends and I feared we would be eaten by this gigantic woman, or we at least laughed and joked about the notion—the idea that this woman would tear our arms and legs from the sockets, munching on them as though she were devouring a bucket of sickly, undercooked chicken. Then she would say: “These taste like shit, but they’ll do,” her voice deep, muddy, and followed by a long rattling victory belch. But I’m certain that wasn’t her intent. Her motive was much simpler—revenge.

Imagine you are a severely overweight woman, stopped in traffic at a red light in a busy intersection. You’re starving. You’re always starving—even though you just ate lunch a couple hours ago. The summer heat is driving you mad. You’re uncomfortable, sweating like lunchmeat left in the sun. Your crevices are chaffed thanks to truant beads of perspiration. But still you’re focused on one thing and one thing only—dinner.

Resting on the seat of your ‘91 Pontiac Sunbird (complete with broken air conditioning and a side view mirror held on with duct tape) is what you desire most—a brown bag of McDonalds hamburgers and assorted side orders, blotted with grease stains and stocked to the top with condiments.

Your dirty, unattractive, thin boyfriend is seated next to you. You think to yourself: He doesn’t give a shit if I dig into this bag of burgers—he hates eating, just look at him! The struggle persists. Binge on burgers now or wait until you get home? The aroma of over-processed, Grade D meat is distracting you, calling to you, questioning your allegiance. But I just ate, you plead. Tonight I’ll use my Stairmaster, burn off the excess calories. But the false justifications don’t work.

Your jumbo-sized Coca-Cola, wedged in the car’s petite cup holder, is sweating, dripping into the ashtray below where a stack of discarded cigarette butts teeters precariously. I told him to empty that ashtray a week ago. You look over at him, a sensation of disgust swelling in your gut. Unfortunately, he’s temporarily preoccupied, lighting another cigarette using the dwindling embers from the last. You take a long look: his greasy hair, his tattered t-shirt, the dirt under his fingernails. Why am I with this guy?

You can feel the fajitas you ate for lunch rolling over in your stomach, a stew of hot sauce, tortillas, and orange Fanta inching its way back up your esophagus. Your blood pressure bubbles. Why doesn’t he get a car or better yet, a job? He flicks the burned out butt onto the road, takes a long drag from his fresh-lit cigarette and looks over at you with his crooked smile, blue smoke slowing twirling from his nostrils. This has got to be the longest red light ever.

That’s when you crumble. Just one burger for now, you tell yourself. At that moment, you plunge your plump hand inside the greasy McDonald’s bag, fishing around for the first available quarter pounder with cheese. Hamburger… no. Your fingers walk around inside the bag, inspecting, searching. Fries… no, chicken McNuggets… ah, success. It’s in your hand, the prize. By now, the smell of lukewarm meat has permeated the car, tested your wits. Your top lip is sweating. Your hair smells like stale cigarette smoke as you brush the feathered, hairspray-glazed bangs from your face. As you fiendishly remove the burger’s wrapper, and prepare to sink your choppers into the delicate sesame seed bun, your aggravating co-pilot chimes in:

“Slow down babe, them burgers ain’t getting’ away.” Before you can even respond to his stupidity, there’s another interruption.

Honk! You look for a car in the rearview mirror, nothing. The light’s still red.

Honk, honk!

What the fuck?

Hooooooooonk!

That’s when you discover the source—a group of teenagers in a beat up gold Chevette, sitting next to you at the light, pounding the car horn, staring at you, making faces, and saying something. You struggle to hear them.

“Oh, is that good?” says the blond-haired teenager in the passenger seat, mimicking the way in which you just desperately unwrapped your quarter pounder with cheese. “Nummy, nummy,” he adds before biting into an imaginary hamburger.

At first you feel embarrassed, maybe you are a pig and this kid has a point, however crude it may be. Then you feel ashamed, the way you often react after catching a glimpse of your profile in a mirror or storefront window. But finally, finally, you settle on anger—fist-pounding, animal-mutilating, shoot-your-gun-in-the-air, punch-your-scrawny-boyfriend-in-the-dick, drive fast-as-fuck-and-maim-these-teenagers-or-die-trying, anger.


* * *
The situation is about to escalate. A second plump, tennis-shoed foot thumps down on the pavement—followed by two large, pasty arms thrusting forward, hands clenching the Sunbird’s doorframe with what appears to be the strength of a small rhino. The woman then quickly and angrily hoists herself from the Sunbird’s bucket seat. The car instantly lifts up, temporarily relieving the suspension from its arduous, active duty.

She quickly turns and marches toward our car with her hands balled into fists, arms swinging violently at her sides, blood-drenched rage spilling from her eyes. We’re all hysterical—displaying a mixture of extreme fear and uncontrollable laughter. And, as if we shared the same brain, we each lock our doors at the same time and begin rolling up our windows. We soon learn the woman is not interested in all of us—just Keith. I suppose that’s a burden the driver automatically assumes when engaged in a car chase.
“You son of a bitch!” she screams, quivering with anger as she approaches the driver’s side of the car. Keith continues to laugh while he frantically rolls up his window, unsure of what she’s planning to do. That’s when she unravels—swearing and punching the glass countless times with her round, cushioned fists. After the window loses its appeal, she raises her arms above her head and noisily pounds on the roof of the car like some sort of giant. Then she targets our windshield, which sounds as though it may crack beneath the strength of her punches. Meanwhile, back at the Sunbird, her scrawny, cigarette-chomping boyfriend does nothing. Though, I suppose his services are not required. From where we’re sitting, his girlfriend seems to have things under control—though she’s starting to look tired. As a final lesson to us, and in between sucking deep gulps of air, she pounds her fist into our hood, leaving a grapefruit-sized dent in the faded gold finish. Now, appearing exhausted and somewhat relieved, the plump woman trudges back to her car, sits for a moment then drives away. The traffic jam we created begins to wind around us, the drivers honking their horns and angrily shaking middle fingers as they pass. Our Chevette stays parked. And, for a moment, we’re all silent.
Unfortunately, this type of situation was not new to us. We’d encountered countless angry and ill-humored people throughout our teenage years—most of whom wanted to either do us harm or arrest us for our actions or supposed wrongdoings. But how could we be blamed for these peoples’ lack of wit or inability to laugh at themselves? Our mischief, for the most part, was benign, the bi-product of seemingly endless days spent addicted and strung out on the euphoria of youthful bliss: doing graffiti beneath railroad trestles, getting drunk on stolen booze, giving bad directions to strangers, shooting bottle rockets at neighbors front windows, throwing pennies into crowds just to watch people scramble, rigging up fishing line with sinkers to remotely knock on people’s front doors—primitive but satisfying deviance, a legacy we proudly established for ourselves one mishap at a time.
But personal identity can manifest itself in such strange ways. And however reckless and insensitive we acted, disregarding the feelings of those on the receiving end of our jokes and disruptive behavior, the motivation was, for the most part, innocent. Our perspectives and our roles seemed to be predetermined—each of us an outsider in his own way. We each found joy in dismantling both the idiocy and mundane routines that surrounded us—whether it was school, the conservative mindset of the community we lived in, the limitations our parents imposed upon us, or the seemingly mediocre aspirations of suburban life. We responded the best way we knew how, with a simple and unspoken agenda: The beautiful destruction of normalcy.

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