Meet Florence?
Florence was busy all day with his dirty work. The mentality of a man with the nickname, Flo was overflowing with an embittered mood and mindset. Then again, wouldn’t you be embittered? Flo would spend all morning trying to assemble the rationalization required to endure the bombardment of ID-ten-T errors that would seemingly compose and saturate his entire day. Not that this day was any different than the others. Just different in ways that spin on another level than one might not expect or be able to grasp. Twilight fading.
With stories flowing in from this source and the other, it seems that the earth is slumping into a state of dissolution. Then again, isn’t it always? With the massive hurricanes that swallow entire cities whole, the wretched stench of failure that follows people of power coming to grip with reality all the while screaming at the top of their lungs, I take responsibility. What does that mean anyway after a tragedy has occurred.
He assumes that many people in the World were expecting another Flight 358. Miracles happen everyday right? Maybe we will see another miracle again today. Unfortunately, Flo waited, almost incalculable amounts of time to receive nothing. They are serving peanuts today on his flight.
Flo calculates endlessly the chances that his fate will be forever changed by a 1/2 inch crack in a fanblade. He never visits Sioux City anymore, ya know. He has thought many times of visiting the venue where incredible life and incredible death met mercilessly. Would things be different if it had not happened? Would he have this incredible torment tear through his body everytime the seatbelt light comes on? His thoughts shatter like a child with ADD when the Flight Attendant asks for his beverage of choice. Could a beverage change his waning focus on his own mortality? Maybe
His mind should be very well labeled, “Intellectually Vacant”. I am sure with the right amount of money, someone could mount a obnoxious flashing neon sign to his forehead warning others.
No Smoking
Nothing ever seems quite right anymore. The voices grow louder in his head. Something about the extraordinary altitude does this to him. See, Flo suffers from multiple-personality disorder. He just can’t seem to keep it intact. Not since that cold night in Denver when his father strolled in drunk from a bar that night. Flo’s misfortune led him to blast a hole in the dining room window with his toy gun. That would be his undoing that night as his father beat him into a near fatal comatose. Fingers twitch at the recollection of the events and the steady blur that clouds his vision. As he lay waiting for a helping hand, he would soon realize nothing was to come for him. His whole life had boiled down to a simple lesson taught by a simple man in the middle of the night. Alcohol slips fears and breeds immortality. Was this an action of power or something more? It was just a mistake… Timmy knows, every since that night. Timmy lives with Florence closer than a spouse or sibling could ever live. He chases the bad man away.
Turbulence… Flo hates it. The last few minutes are a blur though, lucky for him. Coke, peanuts, happy concessions. It is almost as these peanuts are there to help your lose track of your impeding flirting date with disaster. How did he get here anyway?
The headaches and vertigo dominated Flo’s life for as long as he could remember. It seems to always skew space and time. His constant blackouts have always made employment difficult as he always seems to lose concentration.
He looks out the dingy, scratched window of the 737 into the clouded skyline that resembled dirty marshmallows hovering in the baby-blue blanket of endless sky. Turbulence pierced through the plane and his body like torn, jagged needles. It is not going to be alright. Headaches. He notices the child in the row ahead with her mother. Her belongings spread into the aisles as she imagines what is must be like to be an angel or Unicorn floating through the sky without constraints. She still has the ability to imagine the horrible truth of life away in turn for a more peaceful, candy-corn world of unimaginable limits. He wishes his life had been more like that at times. Life is like a game of poker though. You play the hand you are dealt and do your best to not be the last one out.
He just wishes that he could escape the horrible consequences of his life that have led up to current day. He flashes back to Halloween when he was a child. He will never forget the picture frames on the walls and the evil dreams that chased him from his home. The pictures were normal of course, expect for the faces of his close ones that had faded to black. Like they never existed like part of him never existed, nothing is ever the same. The doctors told him that it was for his own good even though he tried desperately to avoid the needles and the track lines that embraced his arms. Like a pin-cushion the doctors shoved the last pin in, the one that would exorcize the demons from his head. He screamed at the top of his lungs, full of despair for his friends to help him. Timmy was gone though and the doc kept telling him his friends didn’t exist. They were right there the day before though. Jackson and Emil were always there, just like Timmy. Timmy seemed to have a condition however that kept him from growing. Maybe something like Gary Coleman had throughout his life. He knew they would come back; they couldn’t stand watching the doctors with their needles. It was never alright.
Jackson was with him today on the plane today. Their exodus was successful thus far from the hurricane-destroyed home of Biloxi. He worked in the casinos for years but recently was asked to leave. He didn’t mean to carry it that far with the drunken elderly woman, but he just couldn’t control his anger when she got mouthy after losing her life-savings at the tables. It wasn’t his fault was it? She was an adult and was old enough to make her own decisions. He lost it though and beat her severely. They say the screams and associated violence drown the counting machines out. Neither of their lives would ever be the same as he slammed the slot machine against the wall in his last fit of anger.
Jackpot!
He worked overtime frequently to cover the costs of his methamphetamine habit. I guess Jackson just couldn’t handle his problems the way I could. His violent tendencies always got him in trouble. He had taken a vacation for a short time to France to try to control his temper and gain a better perspective on his life. It was all working quite well until he ran out of money for food and basic shelter. The insurance companies just wouldn’t help anymore. For some reason, they couldn’t find a record of him in their system. Doctors and their constant mistakes, they ruined everything. It became increasingly frustrating to find a job in a country that did not speak his native language. With a little luck, he was able to get a job fishing for sharks off the coast of France. That excursion would change his outlook forever. He had not read the description of his job which entailed the baiting of stray dogs and cats for use in hunting the ever growing population of sharks. He knew it was not right, but he was starving. It was them or he, the decision was made before he even boarded the boat. He just hadn’t known it yet. He would spend day and night killing off one of the last forms of pure innocence. He was a demon. Life had made him that way. It was far too late to deny it.
I told Jackson to calm down, he was getting irritated again as they flew over Oklahoma City. The evil that was displayed that day when the lives were lost in that Federal Building, paralleled too many of his own actions, just on a grander scale. They say it took less than 7 seconds to destroy thousands of dreams that day. It took about that long for him to lose his conscience on that boat. He was going to get even for the damage one day. He promised. I told him to eat more peanuts, they almost seemed magical or maybe it was just the altitude.
I sit in the passenger seat of an old car that seems more like the transportation to the death of my innocence. I didn’t really want to be here tonight, but Flo decided that a night out was in order. It seemed odd that he wanted to stop at the gas station when the car was full of fuel, but nothing really seemed unusual anymore. Everything kind of just blurred into one empty existence. Nothing seemed real, but I could feel it all around me.
As I noticed the glow of the Amoco neon sign lighting my dirty window and reflecting off the concrete ground next to the cavalier, I heard the distinct sound of souls rushing by. It was not unusual anymore to hear the sound of chaos in the air, but I knew that the world would be one short tonight. Flo liked to play God. I think it was his way at getting back at the world for the abuse he received as a child. They were just numbers to him and nothing more. He was evil, no doubt, but humane all the same.
He argues that he prevents cancer and AIDS from teaching us our wrongs in slow, painful segments of deprivation and mortal hell. His point is a little hard to follow, but often makes perfect sense. Is it true that the picture will always be the same, no matter what color you paint the window frame?
He never warned or tortured them of their impending demise. He just played it by the numbers. Small mechanical devices flew from his oversized cargo pockets. The merchant of death made a loud “click” as a small piece of well-engineered metal and lead found its way into the chamber. The final delivery was one small step away. Flo mentioned that this part always brought the rush. Just a little squeeze, nothing more.
The bullet cut the night air with ease on a fast-paced trip to its final destination. It would all be over soon.
Silence.
Flo returned to the car and said nothing. He didn’t forget my Red Bull. He didn’t forget my cheetos either. He simply handed my items over and sat peacefully in the seat, seeming to bask in the afterglow that we normally associate with a sexual encounter. I swear it seemed like he would fall asleep at any moment.
I sit wondering to myself as we drive away. What if I didn’t want that drink or didn’t desire that little something I was craving. Would the nameless face still be alive? How about his family tonight? Would they still feel the pain of looking for someone that would never make it back?
It was all gone in an instant. It would never be same. I would forever be changed.
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Flo has spent a great amount of time looking for lost souls in the depths of his being, yet they are all silent these days. He has been seeing the doctors, which assure him that his friends are no longer needed. They have all left him alone and the end of the crusade must be near since they are no longer around to carry his handbags. He always liked having a couple of people around to make sure that everything would turn out in his favor. Sure, they weren’t always around in the casino when he beat the elderly woman and they weren’t on the boats when the night grew cold and lonely. He took them as they were. He took them “as is”.
It’s alright though. He was the “kick-around kid”. You know who they were. They were the kids in the hall that were always quiet, they always looked at the floor and never made contact with the likes of you, that was until you kicked their heads in. Flo always wondered if it brought some since of happiness to you when he blood was spilling. Did it? He knew that the majority of his life would be spent looking for ways to prove why he even existed at all. Kind of like the kids at Columbine on Tuesday, April 20, 1999. He could understand what Eric and Dylan were on to. They had simply had enough.
He just wanted peace. He didn’t want anyone to make him part of their clique, he just wanted the beatings to stop. Life is hard as the “kick-around kid”. He was always aspiring to be the best though and in this instance he was. See, there are unwritten rules that apply to kick-around kids. Usually it is okay for a sibling or a parental figure to have a “kick-around kid”, but it is never okay to touch their “kick-around kid”. It is as simple as that. Not for Flo though. He was everyone’s target and they secretly loved him for it. When their period started late or acne was at its worse, they could always beat Flo to feel better.
The whole time, Flo kept a virgin state of mind. He waited until today when opportunity would knock. He gave every effort to forgive himself for being someone else’s “kick-around kid” and not savoring what life had already passed. He went out of his way to act the part. It wasn’t until years later when a therapist mentioned to him that he had been acting all along. It was then that he found that all the happiness he had was not related to anything that had naturally grown inside him. It was all a fraud and through his success he was still a failure.
He tears it all down, brick by brick. There is nothing left but a cracked foundation that needs a little work and once again, he’s just too tired.
Pour another pint, down another bottle for the sun will come up tomorrow and the curtains will go up on another day. Flo should get an Oscar you know. He is a terrific actor.
