Going Home

Whether I'll hear someone "calling me home" when I go is still undecided. Whether my time and date of death is my "time to go home," I don't know. I'll figure all that out later. Right now, call it fate, call it destiny, call it His plan; it's basically the same thing. Who will ever know why shit happens the way it does?

I'm still not sure if the program at my funeral will say "Homegoing Celebration," like my great-grandfather's did. Why not call it what we know it is? All we know is that I'll be six feet under one day. For all anyone'll ever now, that's my last destination. Mind, body, and spirit might just come to an abrupt, expected, or long-awaited end right then and there.

Most people, I'm afraid, are scared to stick to what's evident and only that. So, they embelish the truth. I don't blame 'em. Who wouldn't like to think eternal life awaits us all after death? But call it home, call it heaven, call it paradise, or simply six feet under. No one will ever have the facts to prove anything about afterlife happenings. So, fuck it.

Maybe one day I'll decide to come back to the path that was beaten for me. Maybe I'll become too afraid of the naked truth to recognize it. Just maybe I'll bank on having a reunion with all of my lost buddies in the land of no sorrow and no pain. But nobody's guaranteeing that reunion; my philosophy is applicable. Fuck it. That's exactly why I don't think twice about earning green just to spend green just to smoke green. I see nothing wrong with living every day like it's my last. That's why whenever Mary Jane calls my name and I have the means to answer her call, I do just that. She's my only love in this world. She makes me feel good.

Now, even when she doesn't call my name, I call hers. Communication is a two-way street, after all. Take right now, for instance. I'm running low, so I'm calling her name. The last joint of the stash is an ugly reminder of the trip across town that has to be made. But I always roll one up before I make the trip; it makes me forget about how long it is. The trip is even uglier when it's dark outside. So, now, since the sun is up, I'll go and come back quickly.

I've never been one to watch weather channels to find out what the weather is gonna be like. That's why I wasn't surprised when the drizzle started as soon as I stepped through the emergency exit. The rain wasn't enough to chase Ronald away from the back of Mo' Liquor, though. He was standing there, looking intently at something in the direction of the playground, looking like a nutty bum in the rain.

My lighter is never in the first pocket I check. I always end up fishing for it. It doesn't help that I wear cargo pants every day, either. It works out thought, because as soon as I find my lighter, Ronald starts to begging for it. "You got a light?" It was sort of a rhetorical question. He saw the green lighter right in my hand. I looked up to hand it to him and he didn't even attempt to look my way. What was he looking at? My first guess is that he suffers from pedophilia, but there are no kids to stare at. No kids are on the playground. It's raining hard by now. Yet, he stands there, inanimately, unaffected by the rain.

I looked towards the playground to figure it all out. Nothing. Had he gone mad? Puffing his cigarette, he kept his gaze still. "It'll still happen without her telling us it will," he said as he handed the lighter back to me. What will happen? What does that even mean? I dared not ask. He looked as if he could snap at any moment. He heard my thoughts. "The future," he answered. I looked again towards the playground. She was laying underneath the slide, motionless, protected from the rain. She looked ironically peaceful. She looked as if she had seen it coming and was prepared for it, just not the weather.

I made fire and lit the joint. "She's in a better place," Ronald said. "Rest assured."

An idle mind: The Devil's Workshop

This week was a slow one for June. She hadn't been called in to work at the book store in over four days. With no real reason to leave the house, she sat in all day, moving from one corner of the apartment to the other. She had become bored with waking up just to go back to sleep, getting high only to come back down again, eating simply to become hungry once more after a few hours.

She was bored with her life this week. The boredom had gotten so intense today, though, that she was driven to call her grandma -- a phone call that was guaranteed to consume at least two hours of her time. It was also guaranteed to be an intellectually stimulating conversation, as well. June figured it was worth it.

She scrolled through her phone book down to the contact that was named "The 13th." She was convinced that her grandma was the thirteenth disciple, the way she talked about nothing but Jesus and devoted her life to getting June "back on the right path." The phone rang, and rang. Finally, the answering machine came on and June realized why her grandma wouldn't have been available to answer the phone. Saturday evening mass started at 6, ten minutes ago.

She quickly decided that she would get her fix tonight, as well. Why not? she thought as she put on her shoes and threw her jacket around her shoulders. She grabbed her Bible and quickly remembered that Catholics don't use the Bible. She threw it back down and locked to door behind her. "Saturday night at six," she mumbled to herself. "Who the heck goes to church, let alone Catholic church, on a Saturday night at six?"

She took the scenic route instead of cutting across the back lawn of the church. The statue of the virgin mother that stood directly behind the church scared her, the way the light reflected off of it at dusk. She figured the eulogy would be dry and boring as well, so she was in no rush to sit through it. She found her only incentive for going to mass was communion. Communion at every mass was the best thing about the Catholic church as far as June was concerned.

"The word of the lord," he said.
"Thanks be to God," the parish responded.

June dipped her finger into the small bowl of holy water and made the sign of the crucifix over her body. She made her way to her seat in the very last pew; she wasn't interested in sitting any closer. The droplet of holy water rolled down the middle of her forehead to her brow. She used her sleeve to wipe it away.

Just as soon as she sat down, it was time for her to get back up again. Communion was only served from the very front of the church, near the altar. She took her spot at the end of the line and waited patiently for her turn.

As she got closer to the front of the line, she couldn't remember whether it was left over right or right over left. She figured either one would have to do; she wasn't ready to let Father Eric place the wafer directly onto her tongue, especially considering the number of tongues that came before hers. "The body of Christ," Father Eric said.

June looked up at him, her left hand over her right. They stood there in silence for a few seconds. June alternated her hands, putting her right hand over her left. "The body of Christ," he repeated.

"Oh, Amen!" she said. It had been a while since the last time June took communion. The nit-picky techincal things had evaded her mind. He placed the wafer into her hands and June placed it in her mouth and chewed.

"The blood of Christ," the graying woman said as June stopped in front of her.
"Amen," June said. Chewed-up pieces of the wafer were plainly visible in her mouth when she opened it to speak. She grabbed the cup of wine and turned it up to finish off its contents.

Making her way back to the last pew, she cleaned the remnants of the wafer from her teeth with her tongue and fingernail.