Okay, I tried to channel my inner 'back in mah day' boomer to pull this one off the right way. How, you ask? Well, I imagined the voice of my middle school principal, Mr. Howard, and then I dialed it back some. Yeah. He was the classic 'pick yourself up by the bootstraps' kinda guy. Boomer with pride. Anyways, for those unfamiliar with me, I'm Immortal_Chuuni. I'm only 19, so almost everything I wrote about in this chapter was foreign to me. I had to look it up and call my grandma for help 😭😭😭.
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The bass line of Take On Me by a-ha rattled through the tinny speakers of my aging '02 Ford Taurus. A kind of hollow buzz you only get when the cones are half-blown and the treble's dialed just a little too high. Nostalgic really.
Although nowadays people really just get those fancy e-cars with the electric radio gizmos, I think to myself, my lip curling in disgust.
Honestly, youngsters these days really prefer to waste money on sports cars than to feel the joy of turning up the knob on the dash to rock out.
Boise's evening traffic crawled around as rush hour came to a close, the occasional brake lights of a passerby car glowing red the sunset.
It was that cheap gas-station postcard kind of sunset the kind you see in the movies. Where the handsome guy leans on the cool sports car with a blonde girl leaning on him. The same color palette I used to chase down Route ××× in my beat-up Camaro back in '86.
My, God. I think. 1986. The Big hair and even bigger dreams. And the biggest lie of all time. The lie that says you could be anything if you just wanted it badly enough.
Pfft. If that were the case, I'd long have been the better Jimmy Hendrix. Or better yet, the better Tom Cruise, getting ladies and partying every night. Minus the brainwashing Cult that is.
But alas, Now it was nearly 2026, and the only thing that I could call bigger than my hair was the knot sitting in my chest reminding me that I'm stressed, and that life is horrible.
My marriage to Susan had fizzled out like the last but of beer at the bar. That is to say sputtering and awkward, leaving nothing behind but pitiful drops of what could've been.
Dammit. Why'd I have to think about that whore, I grumble to myself, slapping the steering wheel in annoyance. Nothing good ever comes from thoughts of her, and nothing good came from that marriage. Not the alimony payments, not losing my house, and definitely not getting cucked by my boss who she was fucking while I was at home!
Dammit, even my steady paying career at Peterson & Sons was less Wall Street and more watching goddamn paint dry every damn day.
Rockstar aspirations?Pfft! as if! Those have been long buried. My air-guitar solos that I once performed for an audience of one in my high-school bedroom were now just the mortifying thing I think about to not pop a boner when I see Karen the secretary walking by in that slutty skirt and heels.
And, of course, there one thing that was noticed about me before anything else.
MY GODDAMN HEIGHT!
Five foot motherfuckin four.
A lifetime of looking up at everyone while simultaneously being looked down on by everyone, both literally and metaphorically.
I'd made my peace with it is what I say when someone mentions it!
Truth is, I only really learned to drown my hatred of my inferior genes in an oceans worth of self-deprecating humor but it still nags at me like a goddamn pebble in my shoe that never quite got free.
As I sit hating myself, and thinking with what my boss refers to as 'glass half empty' thinking patterns the synth melody of Rick Astley's Never Gonna Give You Up' carries me through the highways crawl of headlights and potholes while I'm blissfully unaware of my impending demise.
I drum my fingers against the cracked steering-wheel cover in a futile attempt to lift my mood, humming along with Morten Harket's falsetto as it comes on the throwback Thursday Channel right after Rick Astley.
For a second my mind slip back. To the good ol' days, I think, entering my thoughts once again. In my daydream I'm seventeen again.
Cruising Pasadena with the windows down. James is on my right, Susan on my left, Kyle in the middle with Donna on his lap, and the smell of Aqua Net and the haze of Marlboros fills the air.
A Members Only jacket sticks to my arms in post-July California heat.
That sweet stupid stupid sentiment fed to me by my parents with utter certainty that the future wasn't something you survived. It something you conquered.
Haaaaa, I sigh. Running a hand through my balding head of hair, a few wispy gray strands falling out harder than the Beatles. I don't even want to remember that.
Conquering? Sure, mom. I guess for you it is. You attended dad's funeral then skipped town to Miami with the life insurance money and inheritance money meant for me.
Now you sit on the beach sipping margaritas getting raw dogged by a a different guy 50 years younger than every week. Whereas I? Haha. I'm suffering, mom.
The money you use for gigolos was the money meant to cushion me a bit. I can't even see my own son because I married a woman who was never married to me at all. Her true love is money.
Since I don't have it, I don't have her. Or a house. Or even the right to see my own kid. So you go conquer, you greasy old whore. I need to survive.
The thoughts burst out of me like a haze, like those wierd blond people in that Japanese cartoon Derek likes. What was it? Dragonballs? I'm distracted wondering why the hell kids like the weirdest sounding trends, when I see them. Headlights.
Oh shit! I think, caught by surprise. The headlights are blinding and filling my windshield. And they are way to goddamn close.
My gut drops as I think, Drunk driver. It's gotta be. What kind of psycho would do this if he wasn't drunk?
Well, I should've known.
The black SUV swerves once again it ends up crossing the yellow line that was literally FUCKING REFLECTIVE! I scream internally.
As it drives by, the Chrome flashes and the windows reveal faces I didn't want to see.
Inside, looking panicked, but refusing to drop the phones they hold more dear than life, my life, are four girls not much older than my son Derek should be.
Teenagers, I think. Of course. Hypnotized by their gadgets that hide them from reality so much that they don't remember this is real life. And that invincible kind of stupid you feel playing video games on the internet doesn't exist in real life.
In real life, once you die, you don't get to revive. You don't get to swipe daddy's Amex card and buy a health potion.
You get to line up with the rest of the dumb fuckers who didn't hit their 21st birthday because something else mattered more to them than human lives…
Time stretched thin as I think this, and seeing the young faces of kids barreling towards me at 90 miles per hour, my hands yank the wheel hard to the right as my tires scream in protest.
Unlike me, they're not old. They have their whole life ahead of them. In comparison, I'm not worth much anyways. Three young souls can change the world more than I ever could. Sorry, Derek. I didn't get to see your wedding. Or hold my grandkids. I love you though, bud. I always will…
My Taurus hits the guard rail of the highway at 90, flipping it up and over into the local river below.
As the metal tore and window exploded, a hot knife of pain ripped through my chest. The airbags slammed me sideways and I closed my eyes.
I didn't open them again.
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Fun fact about Mr. Howard, After I graduated high-school last year, I ran into him at a Walmart near my apartment. He was shopping, and he needed help getting Crisco from the top shelf. He recognized and asked me to help him, and you know what I said?
Pick yourself up by the bootstraps old timer.
It felt great to say that to his ass after being grilled for 4 years about my doodling and not paying attention in class.
Then I realized, I just insulted a senior citizen in a Walmart. I felt kinda stupid after that, so I left. Haven't been back to that Walmart since. 🤣🤣🤣
Anyways, I have another FF that's full of cool fight scenes, so check it out. It's called Re:Lookism.