The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman (26 page)

***

“I
can’t take this anymore, man.”

“What?”

“
This,
Carl. People crying all the time, strangers screaming and cursing at us, not
getting paid what we’re worth to see horrible shit, leaving our shifts looking
like a couple of zombies because we didn’t get any rest.....I think I’m going a
tad mad.”

“Well
if you gotta leave you gotta leave, Innis. I’m not gonna argue with that.
Plenty of people have gotten out for the exact same reasons. But what are you
gonna do?”

“I
don’t know, man. That’s the problem.”

“You
still write your stories, don’t you?”

“Oh,
yeah. I’ve always written no matter
what
was going on.”

“Well,
what about that? Haven’t you always wanted to write for a living? I know it’s a
plunge into shaky ground, but you’ve gotta get happy, Coxman. You’re almost
thirty-seven and you’re fucking miserable.”

“I
know, man. I know, I know, I know.”

“Look,
if you want my advice, take your woman and your kid and move to Texas like
you’ve always wanted to. It’s all I’ve heard you talk about for the seven years
I’ve known you. Once you’re there, you can chill and write your first book
without any of the bullshit from this goddamn job. And with the city you’ve
wanted to live in? Hell!—there are
lots
of writers and musicians over
there! You’ll be happier, Innis. I think you should do it.”

“My
‘first book.’ That has a nice ring to it…..

“…..ya
fuckin’ putz.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m
a writer.”

“That’s
interesting.”

“So
they say.”

“If
you don’t mind me asking, why do you drink so much?”

“That’s
personal.”

“You’re
not going to answer the question?”

“I
drink because I’m a writer.”

“What
do you write about?”

“Drinking.”

“That’s
a smartassed answer.”

“Consider
the source.”

“You’re
a dick.”

“Yes.
The world is an evil place. It obliges one to be a hard dick rather than a soft
pussy.”

“My
God, you’re disgusting.”

“You
catch on quick, my dear.”

“Do
you always talk to women this way?”

“Only
when they’ve piqued my curiosity.”

“Well!
You must be
really
curious about me then!”

“I’m
curious as to when you’re going to do your job.”

“Don’t
rush me.”

“I
wouldn’t dream of it. Rushing you may actually get your heels to clacking.”

“Why
are you speaking to me like this?”

“So
we can quit this whitty goddamn banter! Now,”—leaning into the name tag—“
Sharon,
I know we’ve just met, but will you get my drink order please and try not to
spit in it?”

That
nosey bitch finally scampered off to fetch me a beer with a Bacardi chaser.

I
swear to God, man—the service at the Road Rash Saloon has gone downhill.

Here I am, too, beholden to be so.

It’s
been one shaky, turbulent, uncertain, heart-wrenching, and at times, fearful
fucking ride.

In
my relatively short time on this planet, I’ve shared

1)
company
,

2)
drugs
,

3)
sex
,

4)
workspace
,

5)
cigarettes
,

6)
alcohol
,

7)
air
,

8)
and
wasted-time with some of the most disgusting
maggots to ever slither out from under a rotting corpse. I’ve been beaten,
sucker-punched, and defeated, as well as won-over, conquered, and overcome. But
I’m not so naive as to think I’m the only one.

Haven’t
we all, in some form or another?

Thank
God, we have survived.

***

I’m
pleased with where we are. I look forward to starting over. I’m happy to be
alive and healthy. I’m happy to have my wits about me and look west to the future.

I
am grateful to have my life.

***

I
once had an uncle who was a career truck driver. He’d been in trouble
before—ridden his Harley through the Army barracks during ‘Nam and revisited
prison a few times—and at a youthful five-eight and one-hundred-and-sixty-five
pounds, was purported to be one of the baddest men to ever walk the Earth. One
time, after he’d gotten to retirement age and fallen on bad health, he gave me
a bit of advice:

“Innis,
there’s a difference between ‘hard men’ and ‘tough men.’ The trick is knowing
which one you are before you lose your balls.” Me being eleven at the time, I
had no fucking clue what that meant.

Cresting
the latter portion of my 30s, I think I do.

Hard
men act without thinking—be it in a fight, in business, or something as mundane
as a spot in a grocery line. No matter who gets hurt, no matter what pain they
cause, no matter the consequences, they’ll fight without rhyme or reason. They
don’t see how their actions affect anyone around them. Not even themselves. They
just don’t care so long as they come out on top.

They’ve
never had to get up because they’ve never been put down.

Tough
men, on the other hand, are smart enough to realize they’re not hard. Instead,
they take their place at the table, scoping for trouble and doing their best to
avoid it. But not backing down if it comes. They push themselves off the floor
when everyone thinks they’ve been bested, seeing a foe through swollen vision
and blood in the eyes. Not to win, necessarily, but to say, “I’m still here.
Now what the fuck are you gonna do about it?”

They
keep coming back no matter what happens.

In
my dealings with people, I’ve met many hard men. I’ve even fought a few: from
dirty cops to coworkers to “friends” to strangers in bars to fellow drug addicts
(plus a few women who tried to kill me, but that’s another book).

I’ve
come to find that most hard men are out of their minds with insanity;
sometimes, it’s just a cold, uncaring personality. And through my experiences, I
can look anyone in the eye and say that I am by no means hard.

But
sonofabitch if I’m not
tough.

***

I
told you from the outset that this was a recitation of sins. Of flaws,
failures, fuck-ups, and transgressions. And also, a realization of maturity and
faith in bluer skies.

Hopefully,
I didn’t disappoint.

At
some portions of this accounting, you may have thought I was bucking for
sympathy. If that’s what you extracted from any of these writings, perhaps I
failed you.

Sympathy
is for the weak. For children or the ones who can’t take care of themselves. It
is for those at the mercy of society stemming from the misdeeds of another—a
bullet to the spine or a kick to the head bringing brain damage, paralysis.
Perhaps an extreme physiological circumstance such as a stroke.

Sympathy
is for the helpless, the dependent.

***

Thank
the God ruling the Heavens, I am fit and capable.

***

I
want as much sympathy proffered to me that I give to the able-bodied world,
which is exactly
less
than zero.
For as wiser men who’ve come
before me have said:

“If you want sympathy, look in the dictionary between shit and
syphilis.”