Breaking – Introduction

It started out as something that most people couldn’t see which is awful because it was in plain view, making a whole lot of noise and even had flashing lights on it. It was screaming for everyone’s attention and really only got a few people to notice it. Naturally, when those people went to go tell other people what they had found, those noble little whistle blowing souls were seen as either disruptions to the order of things and enemies to system, or mad beyond what our little human minds could even try to comprehend.

He saw it coming years ago but never really understood what he saw. His mind was busy.

I suppose you could say that all of this was the result of a sort of reincarnated romantic ideal. That’s not really important right now, just keep that in mind.

I suppose we can start in the middle and then work our way back and forth through both directions in time. But first, a few seemingly random facts about people involved in this will be spat in your direction. At first, these will mean nothing to you. Upon your second glance, they will still mean essentially nothing to you. Then you may forget about them and they may or may not jump back into play. Regardless here they are.

This is for the most part, a story about a person named Mitch. He was born about a decade before the 21^st century. He had a family that loved him and was good in school.

In 1835, The United States of America paid off its national debt. Andrew Jackson was president. We haven’t come anywhere close since.

When Mitch was 18 years old he met a girl named Marianne. Their love was incredibly brief although he still thinks about her. He always wondered if she thought about him but always figured she probably didn’t. She broke the hard truth to him and said goodbye for the last time about two and a half years after they met. The truth was this, whatever they had was most certainly real, but it died a long time before. His last attempt at her heart was quite sad to watch, I’m sure. It was outside a bar on Easter morning. She turned and took a cab home and he wandered the streets until sunrise which was only a few minutes away.

Buddy Holly died in a plane crash on February 3^rd, 1959. He was reincarnated into a young man in upstate New York who gets into a bit of trouble here in there. If he violates probation again though, he’ll have to go to jail.

When he was 20, Mitch went to a punk rock show in his town. Reincarnated Buddy Holly was there. The band wasn’t really his cup of tea but he was glad to be out of the house. He saw the words ‘Fuck a Poet’ written on the fence of the smoking area out back behind the theater and thought them very profound. It could have been a band name or a song name or part of a song. Could have been nothing, but he was sure it wasn’t.

The definition of the word terrorism is something along the lines of: the use of violence and threats to intimidate or coerce, especially for political purposes or a terroristic method of governing or of resisting a government.

Liberty is defined as freedom from arbitrary or despotic control.

Mitch was from mostly Irish decent which would explain his disdain for empires. He gets this from Robert Emmet, who was a not too distant ancestor of his, though he would never know that. Emmet started a rebellion in Dublin against Britain, but empires are tough to take on. This was in 1803. The rebellion just turned into a riot confined to the Thomas street area where he was hung for treason about two months later. He died still being in love with Sarah Curran whom he was not allowed to marry. No history or science can really prove the relation to Mitch at this point, but it’s there through some nameless bastard who eventually came to America.

On July 22^nd, 2011, Anders Behring Breivik killed 77 people in Norway because he thought it was the right thing to do. His crusade had mostly teenagers as victims.

Mitch never really acted out. He was never arrested or suspended from school. He had to go to the school psychologist when he was ten but that was about it. Some girl on his bus told his teacher that he was talking about suicide with another boy. They were. They planned to jump off a bridge when they were in their 20’s. They had no idea what that really meant. Mitch still doesn’t.

Smoking marijuana has never directly led to the death of anyone, ever. Crime associated with the plant doesn’t count. It’s bullets that usually leads to those deaths and that is usually the result of money. And by usually, I mean always.

Mitch got caught smoking pot on his father’s birthday when he was 17. His father was turning 48. He got caught many times after that but never really thought much about it.

He lost his virginity when he was 18. This was not with Marianne. The girl who it was with was a very mean person but Mitch was convinced she wasn’t. All boys smarten up eventually. Mitch always thought he was too late.

In 1796, this new country called America signed a treaty with Tripoli that started with something like this: “As the Government of the United States of America is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion,—as it has in itself no character of enmity against the laws, religion, or tranquility, of Mussulmen.” Mussulmen means Muslim. The treaty had something to do with pirates.

At 21, he landed a job writing for a broadcast news program. He wrote stories that he thought were important and what the network told him to write. They would only ever air the things he was told to write about. Mitch always thought these stories were just stupid fillers to keep people occupied with the feeling that they knew what was going on. The stories they didn’t pick were always closer to the truth. People would just rather see a hedgehog that got stuck in a can of beans than how their government just made it perfectly legal to spy on citizens for whatever ridiculous reason they could possibly dream up. It’s the mass media and their famous sleight of hand.

Douglas McCrea was the main anchor for the news program that Mitch worked on for 17 years before he was hired. If you asked Mr. McCrea, he would have told his career died along with his soul sometime around 2004. He had been an alcoholic since the late 80’s but his passion kept everyone from knowing until decades later. Mitch idolized McCrea. McCrea, in return, mentored Mitch for the first six months of the job but he knew his hero was crumbling.

“If you want to change the world,” McCrea told Mitch once. “You’re sure as shit not going to do it working here.”

Mitch hadn’t even known he was here. He was at his desk working on one of those stories that the network was going to throw out. McCrea had read the story over his shoulder and thought it was brilliant, though he never said so. When Mitch turned around, McCrea had moved to the window and was staring at the busy streets below. It was 30 minutes until he went on air. No one knew anything but him.

“Out there,” McCrea mumbled over the whiskey.

“What’s out there?” Mitch asked.

“All the work that I’m trusting you to do,” He replied with a smile. He walked to up to Mitch and placed his hand on his shoulder. He smelt like a bar mat. Then he walked away and said nothing more.

He shot himself in the mouth on the set that night after going on what all the headlines referred to as the rant of an old, mad drunk. The control room was able to shut off the broadcast when he pulled out the gun, just before his brains decorated the wall behind him. Douglas McCrea was not killed in the name of god or for the good of the country, so they’re not allowed to show it on television. The funny thing was, he was probably the only to die in a long time and not have his cause be in vain.

Whether any of these will be relevant to this story is yet to be seen.

In The Waves – I

The lights go down and then back up on the stage. Four clicks and the animal is unleashed for everyone to see. He drives ahead and leaves time and anxiety and doubt and love and hate all in the dust that is tossed back into the air by the pound of the bass drum. His hair shakes with his head a sweat drips down on to the head of the snare.

Standing all around are three men, strapped with strings. From the beat comes the tune picked to vibrate every atom in the room. Harmonious waves cycle through the floorboards, through the people, through the glasses on the bar in the next room only to be beaten out of steam by the brick confining the scene. Soul by definition is indefinable.

Soul to sole and so bounce the people in the room, some more in tune than others. I’m there. So is she. He’s there too. I’m drunk but I can’t tell you much about the others. The band doesn’t so much distract as it does encourage me to daydream and wonder and trick myself. She does seem to be enjoying herself but he’s mad that I’m here. As if he could be blamed.

We drank earlier in the Japanese restaurant down the street. None of us we of age but they have these nice little booths with doors that close. Order a coke and just bring the rum with you. This was a jug of the good old brown stuff. The wonders that a woman’s purse can hold.

I couldn’t tell you the name of most of the songs, but I could tell you the name of everyone in the band. I did car bombs with the drummer after the show. Again not of age but few kind words and a positive attitude can get you quite far with a bartender. If you don’t know what a car bomb is, try one. I had three and they talks like milk. They don’t actually but metaphorically I suppose they do. After that much rum the milk taste also becomes understandable.

I don’t remember what I did the rest of the night but the bottle can do that to you. That is not the point. I don’t know what the point is but I figured that would be a vague enough place to start. I won’t tell you my name, I’ll just wait for someone else to say it. I won’t tell you where this is because it could be anywhere. I won’t tell you why I’m doing this because there need not be a reason.

“Have another one Stephen?” said the bartender to the drummer.

“Have another one Max?” said the drummer to the narrator.

“Let’s have another one,” is what Max said to Noel.

Noel is the bartender who knows the two people he’s serving are not 21. I’m Max and I break the law. This is my friend Stephen. He breaks drum sticks. We are left with no choice but to abandon the social construct for our own. We are the oppressed. We are the offspring of the former middle class. We are the generation who was born in a fog. We are angry and bored. We will take over the world if it’s not destroyed first.

Noel pops open two bottles of Guinness and slides them to us. He put two shot glasses on the table and pours Jameson and Baileys in as we fill our glasses just enough. Quick now, grab the shot, touch the table click them together and drop. Now drink before it curdles. And there you have it, milk moustache and all.