Doing Time

The other day I'd just managed to chew through the restraints when I felt my phone vibrating. Usually I let the thing have at it while I wrestle with the resulting panic attack (is this a call? a text? a tornado warning?), but as a first tentative step on the long road to freedom (plus I once again had access to opposable thumbs), I bravely answered.

It was my sister, calling from the South of France.

"Having a wonderful time!" she screamed. "Wish you were ici!"

I looked around to where the detritus from my Houdinian effort at escape lay scattered across the dungeon floor and thought,

"What's the matter with these people? Don't they read the police reports? Do they think it's all fun and games around ici?"

It used to be all fun and games, that's the problem.

I miss the Old Life. Every drunken, debauched, disorderly, unproductive, hormone-drenched, poverty-stricken moment of it. I miss the snow days, the Mary Kay parties, the size 4 Boys Levis, the anorexic euphoria of it all. I miss playing gin (and drinking it) until the sun came up or went down, whatever. I miss real roller skates, and those big fat radio headphones, and snaking around Lake of the Isles stoned on my City Roller Wheels in a long line behind that one black dude. Whatever happened to him? Or to me, for that matter? I miss real solitaire, fuck Free Cell. I miss real phones, fuck these Milkduds boxes. I miss when "being connected" meant you regularly read the Personal Ads. When "being wired" had nothing to do with electronics. I miss Roseanne Rosannadanna. The Artist Formerly Known as Roger Nelson. Bobby Ewing. Jim Rockford. Cindi Lauper. Chrissie Hynde. I even miss Huey Lewis and the News. Sometimes.

But where was I?

It's not that I begrudge my sister her trip to the South of France (or was it South of France Avenue?), it's just that I want to go somefuckingwhere. The South of Finland. Pago Pago. Iceland. Uzbekistan. New Jersey. Chisholm. Back in time. Anywhere but here. Hell, I'd go to detox if I thought they'd let me bring my cocktail shaker and sleep mask.

The last place I went was crazy, a franchise of sorts, with outlets all over the planet. Which helps explain this nice padded dungeon and my sore jaw. Meanwhile people keep sending me cheery greetings from The Outside like I'm still capable of remembering what the real world feels like. At least I'm still capable of putting two and two together, as in, You're there, I'm here, you do the math.

Of course the Old Life eventually got old, after all one can only withstand so much unadulterated bliss, n'est pas? Humanoids weren't built for longterm Santaland, with the possible exception of Charlie Sheen, who might in fact actually be an escaped lab experiment, in which case my premise still holds.

As for me, I'm counting on my long term memory to get me through this next phase. My short term is shot, which, given recent events, I consider a miracle of good karma. At least I'm no longer restrained -- as if I've ever been -- so I'm able to move around freely while hallucinating about the past and counting down from 1,825, or the number of days remaining until I can collect Social Security, a.k.a., My Due. Which proves once and for all that I haven't been a total deadbeat, contrary to popular opinion. Until then I'm just biding time, or doing time, whatever.

But there's still the matter of these annoying messages that keep coming in from the outside world. What to do? I guess I'll just ignore my phone until it's discharged. Which is what I eventually hope to be.