Another Suicidal Fern

A little while before Mom left Ozment County for good she bought a big ugly plant and sat it next to our front door. At first, we thought it was a little odd.

It didn't really fit in with the sparsely decorated walls and freshly washed windows (a chore I particularly loathed). But it was harmless for the most part. It sat there contently drooping under an ancient chandelier that I think once belonged to my Grandparents. It appeared to be around that age.

Yes, we'll say it belonged to them. Why not? It's my book.

After Mom left, we forgot about the poor sucker hidden away in a distant corner watering it maybe two times a month if we were lucky. To be honest, no one knew how the damn thing was pulling through.

But it did. Month after month it stood tall!

Every once in a while we were reminded of its' existence when the leaves fell off and started to rot on the hardwood. That's when it would get a drink. A brief nourishing moment of absolution followed by another month of lonely solitude.

The poor guy was tough! It would slump over. Lay flat. Pop back up again. Then lose all of its' leaves. But the son of a bitch wouldn't die.

One month, after a particularly hard struggle, we thought it was dead for sure. It had been wilting for a while and looked seriously unhealthy.

But the thought of losing it made me depressed so I watered it every day after that. Nourished it. Gave it some fertilizer I found in the basement. I even repositioned it so the sunlight hit more directly!

And would you guess what? It pulled through! The bastard grew so much we started having to trim its' branches which annoyed my family quite a lot. But I loved it!

The leaves soon turned a deep lush green, plucky and cute.

But it didn't take me long to forget again. And soon it would wilt gloomily restarting this strange circular ceremony.

My Dad finally got fed up with forgetting the fucking thing and was about to throw it in the trash. It made my lip quiver. I was a real sappy boy all of the sudden. The poor awful, disgusting, infuriating, vivacious thing was part of the family now! But its' soil was spent and water began leaking from the bottom onto the floor creating a stain around the pots' base and warped the hardwood.

I decided then that it was coming with me to experience college. I was leaving anyways and wanted something to remind me of home. Its' strange branches spread and bounced in all directions as I stuffed it into the back seat of my pick up. Sure it was an ugly pain in the ass but I found it charming. I often found this type of thing of interest.

Having graduated with a degree in business, I am now back home (woo, hooray, congrats). And to Dad's dismay, this plant....this fern, sits comfortably next to a window in my room. It's gigantic and awkward (kinda like me) but I'm proud of the monstrosity growing by the window. Cause now I'm back home where we both belong.

The city wasn't for us. It was too damn noisy. Too hot and stuffy for us dusty ferns. We needed fresh air and freedom, man! And Ozment had plenty of that.

School had worn us both down, whittling our trunks to a near fatal point. I was glad to be home for sure but unfortunately I do recall being happy to leave too. I wondered if I'd ever be content? Probably not.

Fuck it, I guess.

I don't remember much of the lectures I actually did attend. I drank a lot. Partied as much as I could with friends attempting to rid a strange anxiety that followed me. The liquor loosened my tongue which flapped around speaking nonsense to those who'd listen. If someone wanted to stick around after a drunken escapade they'd have already seen me at my worst I figured. I had nothing to lose which, thankfully, relieved the tension I felt around these new folk.

Most often I could be seen wandering drunk around campus or watching television with my roommates. I wasn't real happy but I didn't think about it too much. If I ever got real down I could usually find some willing participant to attend a pub (or five) for a pint (or five).

This lingering sadness remained throughout my time in school . But I was on a journey to find "a something" I knew little about. And this "a something" I promised myself would be grand! It had to be worth the struggle.

But all I saw was ugly bright lights and empty bottles. A few ruined relationships and a misery that lingered. Sure, I gained some insight. Mostly that life is a nasty fowl bitch though.

So fuck it, right? I may as well bathe in liquor and be a generally shitty human if it's all trash anyways. Was that the greatest lesson learned leaving home? I suppose so!

When I think about my time in the city I recall most clearly the garbled ramblings of an old chap in a pub that has long since closed. He talked in a rough mumble and was surely cradled in the warm hands of a fine whisky. He saw me, through a hard squint, sitting in a distant corner of the pub picking apart a beer-soaked coaster. All my friends were too hungover to join me but I was bored and needed to get out of the house.

The fella stared for a little too long and I wasn't sure if he found me sexy or was somehow enamoured by my lonely drunkenness. So at first I felt paranoid. He was with a couple other fellas for a bit but they left after their third drink.

I don't think he knew that I adored going to pubs alone to clear my head. It looked bad, sure. Sue me! I needed it. I liked it. Fuck off.

As the evening went on and the man became more inebriated he looked over more and more often. Curious, I'm sure, what a young dude like myself was doing in a dive like that. I'm sure thoughts like, does I just want to be alone to get away from it all? and does he just wanna feel a little older and wiser than he truly was? and of course, He isn't here for a woman, that's for certain! All passed through his head.

I agreed that there were certainly no women to be seen. Well, not really. There were a couple older ladies nearly sleeping on the bar with cigarettes burning in their hands yelling out nasty slurs when they managed to lift their heads. But I didn't count them as a viable option for pursuit. I could get over the age difference and foulness if I really had to, I guess. But the drunkenness? I'm not that type of dirtbag. I wasn't into taking advantage of women having grown up with sisters.

But I digress; the more I drank the deeper the old ragged dude wished to know the meaning of my presence there. Eventually, after his patience wore thin, he stumbled over to my table.

"Hey kid, what the Hell do you think you're doing here?" I looked up from my beer slightly taken aback. The coaster was ripped to shreds.

"I'm sorry, that came out a little harsh," he laughed, "but you're a young guy. So what the hell are you doing here? Shouldn't you be out in the clubs taking drugs and getting laid?"

"I guess I just wanted some cheap beer and a little quiet. They have killer specials on Fridays here. All my friends were too hungover to drink with me today," I stared down at my glass. Like I said, I mostly felt uncomfortable around new people but this fella seemed ok I guess. I was a little drunk which helped.

"But there are at least ten other pubs not five minutes away. Why here?"

I didn't know, but said, "I kinda like it here. It's a little dingy but the service is always good. Nice waitresses. I don't know. I just like it." He seemed to take a shine to this. A nice sparkle glimmered in his eye.

Smiling, he said "You know, you seem al'ight kiddo," he took a long drink from what looked to me like straight whisky based off the few drops that dripped from his grey stubble. I could be pretty intuitive at times when I paid attention. Especially when it came to drunks and their most esteemed choice of liquor.

"Well buddy, I like you, so I think I gotta tell ya my thoughts on life and whatnot and why you ended up here, ok?" I nodded and pulled a chair out for the fella to sit in, tapping the seat invitingly with a enthusiastic slap.

"Well, you see, there's plenty of good fine people in this world with cute little families. Kids running all over the damn place! And I mean, it's great and all. I got nieces I love to bits, you know? And I'm sure I have a son or daughter out there somewhere," he chuckled taking another long drink, "but kid, don't you forget this here now; there will forever be a place for the degenerate. I mean, I'm sure the cavemen even had scumbags they could talk shit about. The son of a bitch you could say 'don't be like him kiddo'," again he chuckled, this time finishing his drink. "Ya see, no matter how desper-hic, desperate the times, the degenerate always sticks his nose through the filth and starts anew. Like a rodent, you see?" he said making an odd squeaking noise. "I mean, it's not a glamorous way to live. No! Not by a very long shot," he laughed very hard now then burped softly.

"Excuse me," he wiped his mouth with a rag pulled from his jacket pocket, "but I think the degenerate is necessary, my friend. Come sit at the bar with me. I'll buy ya a-hic drink. Share some insight with ya!" I nodded slowly.

Free drink's a free drink, I guess.

But why did he think that I was such a shitbag? Those words, that feeling of becoming scum, stuck with me. I hadn't realized I gave off that vibe until then. I don't know, made sense, I suppose. I sucked hard at meeting new people. I was anxious at all times. Probably looked like a skeevy shakey sicko to people who didn't know me. And this guy? This Bob or Bill type seemed to be an expert in the subject. So I guess I was sleeze then? Huh, I thought and shrugged. I followed him to the bar and took a seat.

What I recall most of this odd old man was his thin sleek physique similar to my own and a strong but distinct cologne. His face was a mess of forgettable features. He had grey slicked back hair and wore a ragged leather jacket with a filthy ball cap. But I was several pints deep with the world a foggy haze filtered through my glazed eyes.

I wished I'd remembered more.

He rambled on as I stared blankly. I couldn't help but gaze in awe at this mess of a man for I'm certain he was a projection of my future self. He (I) traveled through a vortex to get here at that exact moment to pass on his (my) advice along. He may even have been a ghost or hallucination as I was quite into reefer at the time but he felt very real as he tossed an arm around me and said "Kid, you're young. But you've gotta promise me one thing, al'ight?" the bartender slid our drinks straight into our palms with precision, "You've gotta keep on getting drunk and, and you gotta get laid as much as you can. 'Cause one day, one day you're gunna be old! Old like me. You see?" he said grabbing hold of the wrinkles on his face dragging down his eyelids "and one day, one day I tell ya, you'll look back right into that big ol' mirror and you know what you'll say?" pausing now for effect "you'll say 'that ol' man at 1010 pub was right!'" We laughed a lot together that night sharing stories of debauchery. I mostly listened. I was a younger man at the time new to life on my own.

As we spoke I wondered if you could really live like he had and find contentment. Could you actually be happy with all the ill-advised, stupid, and straight-up bad decisions that led to a series of unfortunate moments? I knew for certain that I had already begun my journey on this rugged path, but I didn't think it would lead to fulfillment. No, I was pretty into self-abuse at the time testing my body's limits with liquor, drugs, and little sleep.

To me, what gave the Old Man's words merit were the clear wounds that he carried around proudly and had tarnished his life. It was a familiar look I saw when stumbling upon unsuspecting mirrors. But for however beat up he might have been the Old Man seemed to live truthfully without a single regret and I appreciated the deep sadness that hid in his eyes.

A few years have passed now since that night. Fern sitting by the windowpane, I am no doubt the bastard the Old Man hoped I would be. I am glad I've decided to take peace in the country living of my youth. Ozment County had the sort of beauty where a man of moderate means could settle down and exploit its bountiful resources. Returning home was the 'fuck-the-world' type of move I so enjoyed.

Was this just an obscure calling that echoed in the back of my skull or was it maybe paradise? This place truly was meant for quiet adoring where nothing but vast distance is seen and extreme loneliness is felt. I hoped to exploit it all! What this prairie haven lacked in women, it gathered in natural loveliness. I know a guy can't fall in love with dirt, but if he could this would be the dirt he loved most.

I did worry sometimes that this life would be too slow and calm for me. That the constant anxiety surrounding my demise would overwhelm and crush me. I often pondered this conundrum as I poured a stiff drink.

Fortunately Ozment had a collection of wonderful buffoons to drink with and what became of their talents was often exploited. Sunday, no longer the day of the lord, was a day of unholy wickedness that allowed a week's hard work to be relieved with pleasant debauchery.

Thank God for Sunday.

Thank Bob for beer.

My fern wilts in the sunlight.