Its Juxtaposition

It wasn’t until I raised myself from a kneeling position to my feet that I began to fully realize what had just happened. Although I had been a witness to it all, I was just beginning to feel a part of it. There was more than a good chance that she was dead and I thought that if she was, it was almost certain that I had been the one who killed her. What surprised me the most, though, was that the remorse normally inserted into an experience like this was so faint that I could almost tune it out completely. It appeared that for the first time my conscious efforts were actually starting to pay off. I clearly remember the first thing that caught my attention, besides the body of the girl that is; it was one of those theme clocks hanging on the wall to my left. You know, those clever inventions that not only tell time but double as a picture with a superimposed print subtly acting as a background to the clock. Anyway, it was a picture of someone’s rendition of Jesus, and I only knew that it was Jesus because the same visual has been fed to me my whole life coupled with that very description. This particular picture showed him from the waist up holding his upturned hands out towards me while he stared with those infinitely calm eyes. It was three-thirty-eight in the morning. As it turned out, she was dead and, yes, it was I who had killed her. More precisely, it was a part of me that finally gathered enough support to come to the surface and into control for a while. It is a part of me that I consciously aim to control just as the feeling of remorse or any other emotion that invades, spreads, and tries to dictate based on its own desires. It is the part of me that succeeded, for a short period of time, in overthrowing my own self so that its will could be realized. For the part of me that I speak about when I refer to myself is usually the dictator of this society and it uses a certain purpose to manage the agendas of the many into the very same purpose. Otherwise, it would simply be anarchy and I could never even consider taking responsibility for any of it. It all started on a fall night in October. The smell of death was in the air. The mixture of decomposing leaves and withering rotten fruit, already in the process of fermentation, has a way of subtly causing intoxication. I am not saying that this led directly to my previously referenced action, but it certainly could have been a catalyst on this occasion. I currently reside just outside the periphery of a large city in one of those trendy areas that cater to a lifestyle of wealth and indulgence. It is a beautiful place where nature has not been completely overrun by what capitalism considers progress. The proximity of the ocean and the diverse landscape often create a forest of rolling mist that rivals any divine inducing scene in nature. Although a main hub of society is less than an hour away, there are days that this village in the trees seems to be untouched by the pace of modern civilization. Of course, this is all changing. People flock here by the thousands to escape the income ritual that affords them a couple short days of dreaming and justifies the return to the very same ritual. It may seem sick and twisted but, to be fair, it is tough for those caught in the trap to observe from the inside. And the vacation getaway disease is spreading. This trend has infected and exploited this town with hotels, inns, spas, and five star restaurants—whatever the hell that means. As for myself, I’m just one of those hypocrites that work in the very same service industry I so loathe. I serve my part to survive. After all, very few are able to escape a ride on the capitalistic rollercoaster. The restaurant is called Chair Morte. I’ve worked there as a waiter for two years and can barely stand it. It is so ultra trendy and on the edge that many of the patrons have to convince themselves they actually like the food and atmosphere. And, in reality, they come first for the atmosphere. If the food is good, that’s just a bonus. It is the kind of place that can work well only in a densely populated city or a tourist destination. More than likely, most have heard about it from a friend who read about it in that cutting-edge magazine Salivation. Of course, Salivation raved about it because the owner of Chair Morte signed a long term advertising deal with the magazine. So the crowd consists mostly of similar type people—people that digest and spout the opinions of others until a control group of similar influence is created. They like to be in the company of each other so that they can have an inside track to the next big influence. Because, here, it is all about getting there first. The good thing for the restaurant owner is that the general public will eventually follow this swarm so that they can also act as if they know where the edge is. Like any good new eatery, the portions at Chair Morte are so small that many think they have inadvertently ordered from the children’s menu—which they do not have. Look, if you are going to take up time and space at this hot spot you had better order quite a few different things off of the menu if you want to get full. At Chair Morte we want you to still be hungry when it comes time for dessert. It only adds to what I should be taking with me for my, minimum, twenty percent—or you are a cheap-ass—tip. The tables here are so close together that you practically feel rude not talking to the stranger sharing your personal space and, as a bonus, while the waiter or waitress is talking to the adjacent table you really have to strain to forget about the nicely dressed ass in your face. But it is all a calculated design. Not only does the restaurant rake in more profit, but the patrons get to bloat to an audience, eavesdrop on the next big opinion, or do a little bit of both. Of course, there definitely seems to be more talking than listening going on. The sound level inside often reaches a point that rattles the brain. At Chair Morte they serve baby cow glands as a delicacy. “Expand your horizons,” they say, “give it a try”. If they were to serve an Irishman’s liver in a single-malt whiskey reduction sauce and garnish it with gorgonzola cheese, I often wonder if people would actually try it. “It is not cannibalism,” they would say, “if it is prepared correctly in a fine restaurant.” So this is my life, it is what I deal with on a daily basis. I smile and I’m nice to the people who, for the most part, see me as a person in a job fit for any monkey. Yes, at times they seem to converse with me on an even level and even appear to enjoy my company but, in their reality, to be on the same level as them I would have to be making more money—a lot more. There is no way I could be enjoying this job. And they’re right. I don’t enjoy it at all. I guess I could do something that pays better. The problem is that what I enjoy doesn’t pay at all.