chapter 3
the oblivious environment

On the way to work, the sun continued its onslaught. Traveling eight light minutes through dark matter and the atmosphere, shining into Jakk's windshield and onto his skin. His forehead took it like a heat shield. It was weathered but capable. The wrinkles gained a microcosm of definition.

The AC was broken and the gin gushed out of Jakk's pores. He could smell it. It was all part of the process, the manner in which the higher power meant for it to go down.

Why didn’t he get the AC fixed? It probably only needed a little freon his cronies said. But to find out meant a break from the routine. And that stressed Jakk out.

On the way to the club, he recollected more of the previous night. There was of course Rebecca and her baseless judgment. Then Sharon. Then a meaningless argument about the worth of certain popular films with Cevin.

Then it escalated.

Feelings were trounced and legitimate retorts were cast aside. It could only be a certain way. They both knew where it was going. How it arrived was not important. The film discussion was simply an avenue. It didn't matter. Tonight it will have never happened. As Jakk recalled, it barely happened anyway.

But he did regret it.

He lived his life in regret but he had the luxury of never second-guessing. Fragments were always left behind but to hell with them. Truth was only revealed in first instinct and liqour was the impetus.

After the altercation, somebody rescued him and took him home but he only recalled shades of who it was. An attentive female but not hot. She was just a blonde glob in his memory. Perhaps he served her drinks at some point.

The more he thought it over, the more Jakk came to understand that his binge was indeed a form of self-mutilation. For what he had no idea. Perhaps for not saving money. Perhaps for not cultivating better personal relationships. Perhaps for not ever actually doing anything other than contributing to his own legacy in Pensacola. Perhaps for his being the same big fish in the brackish pond. The hurricane blew in the salt water.

This thought induced a wave of melancholy and worry which swept over Jakk at the intersection of Garden and B Street. He thought he large Frisco locomotive that sat on the median had something in common with him. They have both been here for years. Jakk concluded the meloncholy was another effect of the hangover. The withdrawal of alcohol made him worry and it was a simple chemical process and not the water circling the drain.

Jakk just sat at the intersection and listened to his friend's band on the CD player and looked out at Pensacola. The plain men in large American trucks, theoverdone ladies in their luxury sedans. The contractors missing their appointments. The single moms trying to make ends meet in Ford Escorts. And a hung over cowboy vampire suffering in the midst of it all.

Pensacola’s weapon was its oblivious environment. Jakk and his emotions were the child locked away.

He thought every day he was looking like a legend. Even in that threadbare tux shirt and authentic bow tie. Even with bloodshot eyes and weathered skin. Even at 38 hard years-old.

But he still felt like stir fried shit.

Jakk pulled his Accord into the parking garage and drove up to the top where the employees parked. He got out and smoked a cigarette with his bow time hanging across his shoulders. Down the stairs and across the street, he stamped out the fag and entered the club.

This was the routine that ensured he would keep going. That he wouldn’t wander off into some feedback oblivion. It was work. It was paying the mortgage. It was making out with the new girl in town and avoiding the old one. It was staying in Pensacola and being somewhere else at the same time, having pride in it’s peoples but denying its cultures. Vandalizing the monuments and paying property taxes.

Seven different environments. All familiar.