From Scratch Again
“You’re like one of those guys with the machete.”
– “The who with the what?”
– “The guy with the machete. You know, in the jungle? Single file, the guy takes point. Being all manly and violent and cutting everything out of the way. And nobody says a thing because you know, they have to get through. But in the back a trail of destruction is left behind, and they weren’t the ones who did it.”
Okay how about this:
The reason I’m an asshole to people I work with is because I’m on an endorphin high and I want everybody to be. Not because I want to share the buzz, but because they’re interrupting mine. Until the job is done or I’m tired enough to give it a break, I want shit to work and I want them to work with as much speed, danger and laughs as possible. If you get in my way at this point or make me wait for whatever reason, I get short and loud with you.
It’s yet another theory but I think I nailed it this time. After a fairly long hiatus in stagehand work, I worked together with my classmates in a church today, building a theater production. Although I tried hard to contain myself a little, I frequently let slip blunt comments that I regretted immediately after.
What the fuck, man? This urge is so strong, and I don’t want to be a dick. But we’ve been through this.
My twelve-step plan in three easy steps:
– Ask for patience. (I should just put that on a fucking tee shirt)
– Act like a fucking adult.
I should join a SWAT team in my spare time to get my kicks- or learn to skydive to matter-of-factly dance music inches from death. Perhaps paintballing is a safer alternative? Friends know me as a mint tea drinking, dead calm individual but when the adrenalin kicks in, I’m a regular douchebag. There must be some way to vent that? Perhaps I should ask somebody in the know, though I’m pretty sure they’ll just prescribe me fucking pills again.
Speaking of pills. When I was a kid, they made me go to about four or five different psychologists, psychiatrists and Maynard knows what else, until they gave up and put me on ritalin after the diagnose literally failed.
They made me sick. Rather than being able to concentrate, I sat there shaking and sweating and, oh irony, distracted. In the end, I hid the pills between my fingers as I pretended to take them, and threw them away. Best decision I ever made in those sixteen years or so.
I still failed in school, repeatedly and consistently. I never studied for longer than fifteen minutes and didn’t pay the least bit of attention in class. So after a while, although doctors never got it right and their method didn’t work, I began to believe them. What else was I to think? I knew I wasn’t stupid, but what else was I, then?
This month I learned, to my great relief, that they were wrong- and, as a result, so was I. It appears that, in contrary to popular belief, I can sit still on a chair all day and listen to what I’m told. I can face fucking forward and pay attention.
Where I picked up these skills, is a big goddamn mystery to me. If it hadn’t been, I might have started getting this ball rolling a long time ago.
No, it turns out, I am actually the smartass of this class. I constantly have my finger up and make nerdy remarks to prove that I understand the constant teacher’s drone better than the man next to me.
Respect for those teachers is a new little feat, too, although I am convinced that is mostly because that respect is now mutual.
In short, and I never in a million years thought I would say this: I’m enjoying going to school again. The stuff I’m learning is fascinating. The people I’m learning from spent a lifetime collecting the knowledge they pass on, and what’s very important: They still use it every day. My colleagues (classmates, whatever) are a cool bunch, even the retards among them, and it’s a pleasure working with them.
What more can I ask for? At this pace I might just get the hang of this “school” thing I never got.