Chapter 1

It all has to start somewhere, doesn’t it? All things have a beginning. This fact only brings us to the difficult task of pinpointing that moment that sets a particular event in motion. The moment that pertains to this tale was at the end of 2006. A man walked into a restaurant. It just so happened that I was working at this particular restaurant. Before you jump to that conclusion, let me just squash it right here. No this man did not directly change my life. There was no offer to take me somewhere because he thought I was an exceptional young man. He didn’t accidentally leave a suitcase full of 2 million dollars. Fortuitous as that may have been; my life is sadly, less exciting than a Hollywood B action movie. I digress.
I had been working in the restaurant industry for around 4 years at this point. Honing my craft of servitude and taking exquisite joy from learning to read people before they even realized they had let anything slip. I was popular, well liked and sometimes I allowed myself to believe I was respected. Although as fate would have it I later realized the respect I thought I had from my peers had been a farce.
Rocks glasses deliciously occupied by smoldering spirits drained into my bloodstream hazy eyes would lose focus and a spinning room’s walls gave way to outstretched hands cacophonous destruction of personal property ceased only once the faint light of consciousness gave way to a seemingly endless blackness. Life was good. No care in the world, no girlfriend to appease and no one but myself to answer to. I could go where I wanted, do what I wanted and say pretty much anything without much worry to my personal health. I felt envied. Surely everyone wanted that kind of life. This lifestyle was what I believed was the pinnacle of life itself. Surely everyone must want to live a life a carelessness, fruitless spending and shallow friendships, meaningless sexual encounters and morning’s awaking without recollection of how I managed to find my way to a city that was 25 miles away from my own home. I was young. Once.
To return to my original point, a man walked into the restaurant. I paid him no mind as he was not seated in my section. Then the butterfly flapped it’s wings once. His server Ashanti, pulled me aside and said this,
“Hey, did you know that guy is my massage therapist?” She asked me,
“No, I had no idea.”
“Yeah, that guy makes 120 dollars an hour.”

After that very brief exchange I saw the proverbial fork in the road. Could I leave this industry of service and ass kissing behind and make a real impact in somebody’s life? Could I take that chance to be something more than just that guy who brought you your third martini while your trophy wife sat next to you oblivious to the ass fucking you gave your secretary only thirty minutes ago? Could I make that choice? Were those infomercials on late night television that spewed endless hope into the minds of lesser beings while they were strung out on their fifth glass of whisky actually true?
My motives for taking a different path were so captivated by the financial gains that I missed the sinister clouds and negatively charged atmosphere that preceded the coming torrent. The shit storm to end all shit storms.
I spent the following month asking co-workers, friends, family, acquaintances or anyone who would listen if that would be something worth pursuing. As fate, or God, would have it, the path was clear. Unanimously, the input came in. I was born for it. My hands were to be the instrument of healing. To use a colloquial phrase, that was that.
One phone call and a scheduled meeting later I took a left at the fork and started walking. My feet were already tired and hurting, holes in the soles of my shoes had left blisters and scars, but I kept trotting on. I met with a wonderful woman. Janice talked with me, graphs were displayed in front of me about how my career without an education would suffer and the rest of my life would be spent trying and failing to achieve my true potential. None of it mattered. I felt a pull, something or some divine being grasped my arm and yanked like a frustrated mother does to her uncooperative child in the supermarket. Clearly, this is something I needed to pursue.
My prior academic career was riddled with bullet holes of drop outs, failed classes and the apathy of someone who couldn’t care less about the subject material. I had been to two different schools for varied purposes all of which ended in disdain for wasted time and money. Art Institute of Seattle was a waste of my talent and community college was just rehashed high school classes that I had paid money to attend. None of it mattered to me. The higher “learning” in these standardized classes was just a sheet pulled over everyone else’s eyes in an attempt to justify spending unnecessary thousands on a subject we already knew. Veiled promises of a better future were just a matador’s cloak that hides the sword that would be your undeniable demise. No thank you.
After the meeting with Janice, I was convinced this is where I could actually learn a skill. I could walk through all the smoke signals and achieve a higher level of knowledge. Stimulation and learning were the products being peddled to me. Not pie charts, line graphs, tables or percentages that categorized the possibility of living a “better” life. I found myself staring into the unknown deeps of what could be, and I dove, head first.
Despite the crashing lightning.

Hello

For those of you who don't know me my name is Victor. Currently residing in Scottsdale, AZ. I came here chasing a dream and that dream collapsed right in front of me. I decided to write a book about it and this is the venue in which I will bring it to the masses. I will be posting a chapter once every week or so. I do this for various reasons. Mostly because unless I have to adhere to a schedule I will never finish it. So without further adieu I give you...the first official book post.

Introduction

I’m on the floor. Bristles from the carpet irritate the skin on my cheek. I keep looking up to the phone, its blank screen taunting me as I wait for any sign of life, anything that would bring me back to her. Frustrated and impatient my arm moves on its own to the plastic cup by my side. I sit up and the sudden motion causes my vision to blur. Dizziness sets in but I suspect that’s due more to do with emptying half a bottle of vodka into my system. As I look down into the glass, mesmerized by the swirling motions of empty promises and unfulfilled dreams of escape knowing it only ends one way. With a headache. I smile, maybe this time it’ll work. Maybe after this drink I won’t remember her at all. Maybe I can finally sleep. Maybe, I think to myself as the liquid sears yet another scar on my esophagus, the twisted blade in my chest will go away. Why can’t I sleep?

Insomnia. Characterized by the inability to sleep regularly or even at all. That's what you would think if I were to tell you I had that particular condition. Normally you would be right. Normally you would be able to tell by my marked increase in irritability, or the bags under my eyes, or the insidious amount of caffeine or any other stimulant I push into my bloodstream. My insomnia isn’t like everyone else’s. I can sleep just fine. I even remember my dreams most of the time and they don’t veer in the direction of someone who has a tendency toward the psychotic. I dream about love, life, laughter and happiness. Sometimes I even manage to gain control of the dream state and play things out the way I would like to. I could fly, or pilot an exotic car to take me over 200 miles per hour with the top down, and feel the wind flatten my already short hair as I rocket towards the horizon. Sometimes she’s there. Actually, most of the time she’s there. We’re together, lying on a beach in the tropics, a mountain cottage surrounded by snow and desolation, a fire burning in the living room and her glowing red hair flowing over her shoulders onto my chest. The scene changes all the time but the only thing that’s constant is that we’re together. Of course at that point I realize I’m dreaming. I recognize the fact that I keep chasing the dream. It’s not that I can’t sleep. It’s that I can’t stop dreaming. Believe me. I’d rather stay awake.

Now questions are arising. Is this a book about love? Will it have a happy ending? Will we hear a heart wrenching tale of broken promises and betrayal and inescapable beauty? Do they live happily ever after?

Just about everyone asks themselves these questions before delving into a story and engrossing themselves in the small world that’s splayed out in front of them to ingest. The only problem with those questions is that Anna might see the answers differently than Alex. James might disagree with Joe and Steven will throw in something completely out of bounds and make Anna, Alex, James and Joe pause for a moment and wonder if maybe he might be on to something. In my opinion this story is less an answer to a question and more my way of projectile vomiting life experiences at you and seeing if you have a sympathetic gag reflex. Will you vomit because I did? Or will you scrunch your nose and walk away? Ultimately, I couldn’t care less. Do what you will with my expelled stomach contents. That choice is yours. The choice is always yours.