Irreconcilable Differences

What makes us. What makes me. There are no answers to these questions, not even at the bottom of the bottle sitting in front of me. I know this, the bottle knows this, but I keep asking anyway. I was about halfway through my fourth round of 'questioning' when I gave up. Not just on the drink in front of me, but on life.

Life had failed me, or I had failed life; probably a combination of both. We both expected things that neither of us were capable of giving. In a way, it was relieving, now the pretending could stop. But it also left us in an awkward position. Should we, like so many before us, part ways? I love life, but the differences between us seem insurmountable, irreconcilable even.

Maybe we just needed some space. Get away from each other for a while, rekindle that old flame.

Listen to me. I sound like I'm talking to my ex-wife, trying to save our congenitally defective union. She never had the answers I was looking for either. Just an empty head, a pretty face and a thing for my partner... I should have let him die that night. I should have let the life pump itself out of him into the street...

No, I did the right thing, and kept him alive until the EMTs showed. Got a medal for it too. I hung it on the wall behind me, right next to a copy of the divorce papers. I catch myself staring at it some time. I don't say anything, I just look at them. I get the feeling I'm daring myself to say something. I'm not.

Last I heard they had moved to Delaware. He made detective and she's fucking their pool boy.

The world turns.

The rest of my drink burns a hole into my stomach as I clean up the office for the night. I left the force when she left me. It just wasn't something I wanted to do anymore. To be honest, I'm not sure what I do right now. When I moved out here I was still in a bit of a daze, but I knew I would need a job and I knew I didn't want to be a cop anymore.

That chapter in my life was closed, or I thought it was. I had just gotten my resume out to the larger companies in the area when some guy named Greg showed up at my door asking for me. I figured he was just part of some neighborhood welcome bullshit, just like me and her had endured when we bought our first house. Some of you know where this is going. I invited him inside and got him some coffee, we talked about good places to get food, which car mechanic would rip you off the least, a little history of the area. As he's leaving he stops and says he's got something for me. I was hoping it was a map or a couple restaraunt menus or something, but it turns out Greg was just there to serve my ass a subpeona.

After three weeks of wading through a morass of legal and financial wood pulp, I got a letter in the mail. There was a position open for me, and could I start that week? One of the many glowing chunks of fallout from that divorce was that I needed money. I didn't even bother to look at the job description. I should have.

I had been shown to the office by some temp who told me to get set up and that someone would be with me shortly. He then disapeared in the maze of cubicles shortly after I assured him I didn't need a coffee.

No one ever came. I didn't notice at first, occupied as I was with setting up and getting aquianted with the room. Once that task was finished I sat down and started playing solitaire. Then minesweeper. Then pinball. Then I went home.

For the first five weeks I loved it. I went to work, did nothing, and for some odd reason, got a check every other Friday. It was the exact opposite of my old job; I would work my ass off each day, putting my life on the line to protect the city, and might even get paid, depending on how well the council handled the buget that quarter.

Now, almost a year in, I'm miserable enough to want to get shot at again. Or start shooting.

There's a thought.

And it would make for some good television.

Or maybe if there was a bomb.

Not a big one. Just enough to get the building shut down for a week or two.

I could use a vacation. A long one. More than a week or two.

Ok, maybe a big one.

I don't need to blow up this building. Any building for that matter.

But I want to.

I really want to.

I'm going to.

I know how I'll do it too.

I had borrowed a key from a janitor about six months back. I told him I got locked out. I just wanted to go exploring.

You can make a pretty accurate copy of a key if you have modeling clay and a few other things.

It's a crude copy, but it works well. I can open any door in the building.

The building has a really big boiler.

There's a gas main down there too.

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The explosion wasn't as big as I thought it would be. I could see the fire from my house though.

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I drove up to the building the next morning. The parking lot was a sea of emergency vehicles, twisted metal, and shellshocked telemarketers. I think that's what they did anyways. For all I know they've been on the phone with each other the whole time. It wouldn't surprise me.

Some fire/rescue/volunteer/asshole/dogooderfuck hands me a cup of something warm and brown. I drink, expecting it to taste like shit. It tastes like crap. Maybe things are looking up.

Wrote this tonight in a span of about two hours. I'm not really sure where it came from but I found it to be interesting.

Tell me what you think!