The Journal, A Memoir, Intro, Prelude, Pt 1

"This unflinching memoir transcribes the author’s journaled struggle with the meaning of human existence, a driving need to understand viewed through the haze of alcoholism. Working a string of unfulfilling jobs, including a baggage-handling gig with flying perks that jump-start this chapter in his life, the author flings himself against the expectations of a “normal” Midwestern life and finds only the grinding pressure to conform, to submit to society’s yoke. Written in the tradition of Kerouac, Bukowski, and Hunter Thompson, this manuscript puts no polite gloss over the harsh effects of the drinking and isolation that drove these years of his life. Through straightforward narration and hallucinatory highs and lows, this memoir shows a man wandering outside the comforts of the expected life and debating why it never works for him."

 Introduction:

‘The Journal’ was written, or better, scribbled in a black college ruled notebook in 2006. There were no deliberate intentions. It was something to do. It was something that kept me going in a time of depression and existential disaster. Meaning and life weren’t packaged pretty together at the time. Writing for me, in 2006, was a reason to keep moving, stay alive, and most of all, an excuse to keep drinking.

In 2013, I dusted off the weather-coffee stained notebook and tried making sense of the dribbling nonsense and typed the damn thing up. The following entries will be the result of that madness and mess. Please excuse the many grammatical errors, spelling, and incomplete thoughts, they are intentional, I assure you, as a work of art, for authenticity, and the lack of a professional editor. Thanks.

WARRNING!! PLEASE NOTE: Parts and scenes in this story contain graphic, not necessarily violent, but sexual imagery, suggestion, and vulgar use of the English language. Any readers sensitive to this subject matter please stop reading.

Enjoy,
Your Friend,
Chet Livingston

Explicit Content: NC17
Content not suitable for young or sensitive audiences.

  Prelude: Let the Movie Begin!

Our Hero looks himself in the mirror. Ugly as the day he was born. He opens a beer listening to the sound of metal slicing through metal, and the gratifying release of carbonation. The foam gently rises through the new opening. The Hero slurps it before tipping the can back and letting the umber fluids wash down his throat. It feels cold and heavy in his stomach. The Hero sets the can on the toilet lid. Aluminum clinks against porcelain in a meeting of synthetic materials and reorganized atoms.

With black handled scissors and rust-spotted blades, our Hero begins chopping large chunks of his long dirt brown hair. They fall like feathers into the white sink.

He finds the beer empty and his head as well. It is short shaven, like his face looking coated in a two day bristle. He goes into the kitchen and gets another beer. At that moment the doorbell rings. Shirtless, the Hero goes to answer it.
She barges in from the cold, with those eyes. It was always those eyes that did him in. She brushes up against his hairy chest.

“Chet, is that you? I almost didn’t recognize you with all that beautiful hair gone.” She rubs a soft palm against his fuzzy head. “Got anything for me to drink baby?” She asks.

I go back into the kitchen, open the fridge, and get myself another beer…

 Saturday Night:

Silver fingers of moon climb a cloudless, violent night. Featureless figures shuffle below her mystery. Masks cover everyone’s faces, dancing, Oh! How they dance, in laughter and in fright.

Tonight, I drink on the rooftop of an empty house, staring at an immaculate starless city sky drowning in madness. I watch as the full moon, in her glory begins to rise over the dark treetops. A warm wind blows across my unshaven face. Should I smoke another cigarette?

I see a picture in my mind of a woman dressed in black. She wears a white mask, red lips, and a slight smile. Black lines define her shiny plastic face. Her little black irises flicker behind tiny holes beautifully. I search for her this night, as I did before, without effort, until she finds me.

Traveling delivery in a joker’s coat.

The devil never wore the skin of a goat.

Dancing ladies lead appeal.

There is no other way to seal...

In these days the rooster has signed the gravest deal.

Its lover,

roasted,

has become the greatest

deep fried meal.

 Part One: The Devil and the Blue Bird

 Entry One:

Everybody, when I meet them, at a job, in a bar, around town, they ask me, “What’s your story kid?”
But, I don’t like to talk. It spurs curiosity. Too many people talk. They like to hear their own voices.
When I was young, I played alone. No one heard me when I spoke. My life isn’t important. I don’t feel like talking. Let’s talk about who you are. I say, “I don’t want to talk about it.” I say, “Leave me alone.” I say,” Screw off you bastards.” I tell them nothing and that leaves it to their imagination.

Sometimes, I reveal a little something for them to chew on, something to wind them up. I wouldn’t call myself a liar, just an instigator. Subtle details, like the stripes on my sleeves that reflect so I don’t get run over by an airplane, or how I ended up in this town by floating on a log down a river.

Things like that work well. “I do whatever pays the bills,” I say, and then I ask, “So what about you?” exhaling smoke, “what’s your story?” and usually, I need to check my watch to know if I have the time to listen. Once they start talking, it flows like a busted water pipe. This is how I get to see a glimpse of someone else’s life and I faintly experience what someone else has lived, if I cared. I guess that is why people read books.

 Entry Two:

It’s an easy job. We sit around the break room bullshitting and complaining. I’m trying to read. Mark is in the corner, sleeping under a yellow poncho. Some foreign guy nobody can understand is yap crackling on his phone.

Airport luggage thrower, or handler, whatever they call this job, depending on who is saying it, that’s what I do. That’s my current occupation. It’s not glamorous, but it’s easy and includes flying perks, a fancy orange vest and two blinking batons. In my opinion, the less work a guy has to do, the better off he is.

We throw passenger’s bags, randomly stacked and compressed, into the rear belly of an airplane. It must be counted and calculated correctly to maintain proper weight balance and proportions for safe flying. Otherwise, the airplanes will have complications during take off. No one thinks of these things while boarding an airplane. The people that are loading and unloading the cargo are endangering or securing their lives depending on simple second grade arithmetic. A lot of Luggage Throwers, my co-workers, they don’t care, “Toss that shit in there man,” they say, “let’s go have a smoke.”
Rainy days are enjoyable days. They feel like a real struggle, or like being in a movie. The wind whipping through the runway, rain beating down, lightning flashing, engines roaring, it’s a rush.

I walk around the terminal flirting with cute gate agents. This one has long, shiny fingernails and a pretty smile. Her skin is dark, not artificially tan, but from an island lineage. She has expensive taste. I see the sparkling multi-diamond ring and fancy purse, probably a fake designer bag. Over casual conversation, I lean against the gate lectern and glance at her pleasant behind as she turns the other way.

My plane is landing. It will take off in twenty minutes. The crew and I have fifteen minutes to open her belly, disembowel the contents, and reload her with more luggage. I work fifteen minutes for every hour.

Out on the runway, I wave my orange batons like a happy circus clown. I motion the approaching 34 passenger double-propped SF340 Saab. Getting the pilot’s attention, he turns the nose of plane towards me and begins pulling in. I signal the plane with the appropriate arm gestures at the exact moment the wheels move along the ground. This is called marshaling. If I fail, there will be a million dollar lawsuit and a big broken toy. The Pilots trust me. I wont tell them about the hangover.

The plane’s front wheel must stop exactly on the parking line. I can see this line but the Pilots cannot. If I fail, the engine blades may oscillate into something unwanted, like someone’s head, baggage carts, parked vehicles, or the building where passengers await their scheduled boarding time.

If the plane stops too short, the boarding gate won’t reach the cabin doors, and the passengers on board won’t be able to exit the plane. This makes everyone very crabby.

The trick is to move my arms slowly like a flying duck. I count down from five as I raise my arms up over my head. With my one good eye focusing on the front wheel, I cross the glowing batons just as the tip of the airplane nearly crashes into my face.

I wedge the black rubber chocks under the wheel by crawling under the wing, and begin unloading the bags crammed in the rear. Two other guys help. One is inside tossing the suitcases out, while the other guy and I stack them on carts. We do our job quickly and violently, throwing with no discrimination. Timing is crucial; we need to get back to slacking off.
I collect the zippers that break off the suitcases and attach them to my orange vest. They are my shiny medallions of war.

Tonight I work till 11:30pm or until the last flights arrive. It’s been five months on the job. They stick the rookies on 2nd shift, working Wednesday through Sunday.

For some reason I agreed to pick up Mark’s morning shift tomorrow. I don’t know why, maybe because he’s a funny guy. I have to be back here at 5:30am. There is no point in going home tonight.

I ask around about the infamous Captain’s Sleeping Lounge. It’s down a hall of mazes in the lower bowels of the terminal. It requires a secret four-digit punch code to get in. I get friendly with a few female flight attendants and they give me the combination I need to know. “But don’t let anyone catch you,” they warn.

It’s quarter to midnight. My shift is over. I punch out at the time clock and make my way down the hall of mazes. I feel like a mouse searching out the cheese. I punch in the four secret numbers and the lock magically clicks open. I open the heavy door and enter.

Dozens of smooth deep blue recliners sit unorganized in the dark room. I make out a figure in the far left corner. It’s probably a Captain or possibly a “sexy” Flight Attendant. The door behind me closes with a swish. All exterior light is cut off and I cannot see where I’m stepping.

When my eyes finally adjust to the dim room, I make a bed by butting two chairs together. I find some thin cotton blankets that are only big enough to cover half my body. I keep my jacket on and take off my boots. My feet stink. Someone else comes into the room. It’s the contours of a woman. It’s now past midnight. I put my boots back on and curl into a ball. Air ducts in the ceiling quietly hum.

I drift into a dreamless sleep. People come and go all night allowing no privacy or real rest. My cell phone alarm rings, it’s 5:00am. I get up from the recliner and make my way out the door. I visit the men’s restroom and wash my face. A fat bald man in a black suit farts as he urinates. He looks at me and grins. I continue to brush my teeth.

At my locker, I change into the orange vest. Four doors down is the time clock. I want to push off and never return. I need coffee.

I slip and fall in the middle of the runway while disengaging the front wheel of an airplane from the tug. Some stupid flight attendant poured water on the runway. It froze. I slid under the belly of a 30,000 lb aircraft as it nearly ran me over. My ass hurts almost as bad as my head.

The day goes by slowly as I drink cup after cup of cheap black airport coffee. This stuff isn’t even legal for the slaves that pick the beans to drink. I go on autopilot-parking, loading, and unloading airplane after airplane. Noon comes and I hit the vending machine for a bite to eat.

Two o-clock arrives and I punch out. A dollar seventy five on the Light Rail gets me to downtown Minneapolis. I find a café where they have real coffee and spend my last $2.

 Entry Three:

My favorite part of working at the airport,
is standing next to the runway,
and watching the planes come and go.
So delicate and precise,
mechanical birds of the sky,
with perfect timing,
this is essential.
Happening day after day,
forever.
Engines roaring,
screaming into life,
taking flight
and soaring.
People coming
People going
Reuniting
with family and loved ones.
Saying goodbye.
Real tears,
Real emotions,
Not like the ones in the movies.