When I was younger, I often had visions of the man I wanted
to be as I aged. I wanted to be strong, broad-shouldered, charismatic, and
wealthy. I’d like to think that I’ve achieved much of that in some regard, but while
to others I may have reached the summit of the mountaintop regarding those
goals, from my own perspective there is still much, much work to be done. And
that’s good. Who would want to go through life easily capturing perfection, as
if it was a child’s plaything? What would be the purpose of anything? I want to
fulfill my desires with nearly fatal perspicacity defining my efforts. Too
often, the spoiled, sheltered, wispy and coddled are shorn to the bone by the
elements of reality. I know this lesson all too well, because I was one of them,
cast into the world by the uncaring hand of my own naïve ambitions. By the time
I had discovered my mistake, it was too late, and I thank God for that daily.
It’s better to struggle seemingly vainly daily, to flex unbendingly against pitiless
hindrances and barricades. How will a man become a man if he is never forced to
prove his worth or test his mettle in the arena of life? It’s been said that
whenever you are being pushed roughly and forcefully by life, you are no victim
of cosmic bullying. Rather it’s God, fate, or sheer evolution grasping your
wrist tightly and, tired of the unmotivated straggler it He sees before Him,
ushering you along powerfully into a new step in your life, a fresh plateau in
your destiny, to be savored, enjoyed, adapted to, and overcome ultimately.
Relish it.
My standard uniform, when not in uniform, is a pair of dark
brown Timberland boots, one of several pairs of dark Levi’s 513’s, a trendy
pick from an assortment of black, grey and white t-shirts, whether emblazoned with
a graphic or a dependable, solid color, a pair of aviators or wayfarers, and a
black or grey hat. I’ve been told I wear too much black, that my wardrobe needs
to be spruced up desperately by the addition of pastels or, at the very least,
a semblance of brightness. To these criticisms and opinions, I casually respond
with the same phrase that has served me well since the age of 13 when
confronted with narrow-minded naysayers; Fuck Off. This outfit, in all of its
permutations, is, to me, the garb of the rebel, the vagabond, the outlaw.
Granted the addition of a leather jacket, the most holy of all accoutrements,
and I’m on Cloud 9. The style, which I’ve been told is anything from rugged to
biker, encapsulates my mindset perfectly. I’m just a guy, no more no less. I’m
blessed with certain talents and gifts like anyone else, and my deployment of
said skills has earned me recognition from several select groups of people.
Yet, I’ll be the first to concede that there is nothing inherently special
about me. I’ve simply learned to make what I’ve got work for me expeditiously
and exponentially. Although I’m steadily and gainfully employed, I still
consider myself an outlier that exists perilously, yet excitingly, on the edge
of society, cockily snubbing normalcy. They can keep their beer guts, sports
teams and unfulfilling sex with unattractive, corpulent women. Bonnie and I
will continue to be outlaws, cast hopelessly asunder and adrift in the
torrential waters of the unknown and unexplored. Tattooed, fit and angry, one
hell of a triad.
We drove aimlessly yet fervently through the mountains en route
to another non-descript Southern California town. The beach, while gorgeous,
vast and intimidatingly captivating, was neither our natural inclination nor
our preferred habitat. So we travelled. On a whim, I entered my home address,
and we set off in that direction. Along the way, she fell for the scenery at
first sight, and my passion was rekindled by that old flame, the wilds of
Northern California. The mountains reminded me of Nevada, heading up to Reno,
the foothills steeped in mining history, awash in the moribund detritus of
untimely deaths and the promise of glittering gold buried deep in endless red
dirt. These mountains are the horizon of my undying dreams, the rush of
battering gusts of ramrod wind swooping through the rustic trees, forming the
soundtrack of my sleepless nights. I recall fondly and often the excitement
laying thick and palpable inside our car as my parents took me on our family
excursions throughout the summer, every weekend gleaming with silver and thick
with green, the sound of clinking and jangling coins a seductive symphony
promising one more jubilant night in paradise. It was here that I learned
firsthand of the power of skillful gambling, the forbidden, dark, enticing art
of bending the casino to your will with the alchemy of mathematics, psychology
and fortuitous luck. These movies played constantly in my head as we flew into
oblivion, love the only salient thing guiding both of our compasses.
I had long viewed
freedom as the sole purview of the single man, the man untamed and unburdened by
martial relations and that disgusting word, exclusivity. But, as we rode, fluid
and unmatched, I realized that this, what I was experiencing at
that moment, was freedom. My solitude cracked skillfully and gracefully by this
deceptive little siren, who, rather than entering my sacred personal world and
trying to conquer it like an unwanted pest, instead inserted herself
unnoticeably, until I was unsure if she was ever absent in the first place.
Brantley Gilbert blared chaotically through the speakers, our hearts and the raucous
drums pounding rhythmically, in perfect sync with the rough form of refinement
we created when together. I beheld her, wide eyed and jovial, aghast at the
beauty lying hidden just an hour north of that hated island, and a wide,
jubilant smile crept involuntarily over my face. There were no chains around
me, no padlocked cell door keeping me from my life. Instead I found a partner
riding beside me on horseback, ready to raise hell and kill our demons. We aren’t
perfect, we both drink too much, and we both get too physical. No one else can
handle either of us, and we can barely contain each other. What a ride.