CHOKE - A NOVEL BY CHUCK PALAHNIUK I’m a jerk.
I’m a jerk with a big heart.
I just don’t know that yet. The part about having a big heart. I’ve known for years that I am a jerk.
Despite such a level of pathetic realization I’m closer now than I ever have been to coming to terms with myself.
This consciousness strikes me as I slice through the basil and lemon encrusted Sea Bass with yellow saffron rice and the seasonal vegetable medley, slightly over steamed. It is not going to rank among the most upscale of locales that I have pulled this before, but it looks to be an above par night. More than a few of the mid-life crisis assistant vice-president to the associate director of vice-presidential associates, assistant types here as well as a scattering of aspiring heroes and one whom I am certain has a background in medicine. There’s something oddly familiar with this place, I pause and stare down the suspicious and knowing eye of the pimply faced bust boy. Cramming a wedge of sourdough to plug the carrot strips down above the herbed Bass that’s slipping itself into an impasse above my Adams apple I know it’s far too late to change course now…I’ll have to wish beyond better judgment that I’ve never eaten here before.
What did she have in store for me? What is the goal she had hoped to accomplish? Why could I never learn to accept any of it?
My mother, or rather what’s left of her, speaks past me now. I’ll never get the answers I need, I crave, I starve for. Had she forced me into being the slack that sits at table E7, non smoking, with the oversized fork load of snowpeas slugging down his face onto his unironed shirt in a steady stream of his own drool?
If dealing with sex addiction was as easy as collecting rocks…I’d build me a wall. A wall to keep me away…from me. And everyone else.
But am I such a bad person? Do I not fill a void, answer a question, put to rest that which has remained unresolved in so many for so long?
Even Jesus had to of screwed up a few before he starting getting it right. Am I just selling myself short?
It can take a lifetime, and sometimes longer to know these answers. Without oxygen I’ll be dead in the next 2min and 28secs.
Flailing across the hardwood, face shades of disappointed maroon and desperate violet; I feel my eyes rolling back as sweat pours from my scalp and brow. Kicking hard in an untimed stammer I’m scuffing up the walls and shins of onlookers.
2min.
One by one, the rocks stack higher. The stones are varied in shape, weight and color. They form a mighty wall. Is it enough to keep me contained?
The slightly balding, father of 2.5 kids and owner of a second mortgage feels at one with the moment. He knows he can redefine his life…do something of worth…save a wretch like me.
74secs.
Anne, Susan, Michelle, Jen, March, Megan and that girl from work in her colonial stockings down around her ankles. Why could I never speak to my mother about these things?
Tonight’s hero, glasses tossed to the side, sport coat handed to the soccer mom in state of sheer terror as she rips into the underpaid waiter on line with 911’s ear, is pounding on my chest and thrusting heavy garlicky breaths of hope into my lungs. I’m dark purple and my hands have turned clammy. If he pulls this miracle off he’ll be indebted to me for life. He’ll send checks and little hand written post cards to stay in touch. He’ll want to know how med school is going and if I ever reconciled with my estranged mother. I’ll of course have to pretend to remember him and refer to my ledger to compose a ‘going through the motions’ response.
It’s the most defining night of this poor saps life. For me, it’s Tuesday and I wish I had ordered the Ribeye.
26secs.
Being addicted to sex isn’t the same as being as addicted to alcohol. Given the choice I’d choose the later at this stage of my life, because then at least sex isn’t a necessity…it can still have meaning.
But what in my life has meaning?
8secs.
I’m almost dead. Dead from having never really lived.
This is the part I’m never prepared for, no matter how many times I’ve done it. The rush and return. The tears, his and mine. The pissing of the pants, the regurgitated food coughed up on his and my shirts and onto the shoes of the couple on their 6month anniversary.
This man has been has been given the opportunity of a lifetime. I’ve been given an excuse to skip out on my tab.
All those lies…did I ever really help anyone?
The stones crash down mightier than they rise.
I can say that I’m a jerk with a big heart, but all I know for certain is this:
I’m a jerk that’s been spared once again.
I’m a jerk with a big heart.
I just don’t know that yet. The part about having a big heart. I’ve known for years that I am a jerk.
Despite such a level of pathetic realization I’m closer now than I ever have been to coming to terms with myself.
This consciousness strikes me as I slice through the basil and lemon encrusted Sea Bass with yellow saffron rice and the seasonal vegetable medley, slightly over steamed. It is not going to rank among the most upscale of locales that I have pulled this before, but it looks to be an above par night. More than a few of the mid-life crisis assistant vice-president to the associate director of vice-presidential associates, assistant types here as well as a scattering of aspiring heroes and one whom I am certain has a background in medicine. There’s something oddly familiar with this place, I pause and stare down the suspicious and knowing eye of the pimply faced bust boy. Cramming a wedge of sourdough to plug the carrot strips down above the herbed Bass that’s slipping itself into an impasse above my Adams apple I know it’s far too late to change course now…I’ll have to wish beyond better judgment that I’ve never eaten here before.
What did she have in store for me? What is the goal she had hoped to accomplish? Why could I never learn to accept any of it?
My mother, or rather what’s left of her, speaks past me now. I’ll never get the answers I need, I crave, I starve for. Had she forced me into being the slack that sits at table E7, non smoking, with the oversized fork load of snowpeas slugging down his face onto his unironed shirt in a steady stream of his own drool?
If dealing with sex addiction was as easy as collecting rocks…I’d build me a wall. A wall to keep me away…from me. And everyone else.
But am I such a bad person? Do I not fill a void, answer a question, put to rest that which has remained unresolved in so many for so long?
Even Jesus had to of screwed up a few before he starting getting it right. Am I just selling myself short?
It can take a lifetime, and sometimes longer to know these answers. Without oxygen I’ll be dead in the next 2min and 28secs.
Flailing across the hardwood, face shades of disappointed maroon and desperate violet; I feel my eyes rolling back as sweat pours from my scalp and brow. Kicking hard in an untimed stammer I’m scuffing up the walls and shins of onlookers.
2min.
One by one, the rocks stack higher. The stones are varied in shape, weight and color. They form a mighty wall. Is it enough to keep me contained?
The slightly balding, father of 2.5 kids and owner of a second mortgage feels at one with the moment. He knows he can redefine his life…do something of worth…save a wretch like me.
74secs.
Anne, Susan, Michelle, Jen, March, Megan and that girl from work in her colonial stockings down around her ankles. Why could I never speak to my mother about these things?
Tonight’s hero, glasses tossed to the side, sport coat handed to the soccer mom in state of sheer terror as she rips into the underpaid waiter on line with 911’s ear, is pounding on my chest and thrusting heavy garlicky breaths of hope into my lungs. I’m dark purple and my hands have turned clammy. If he pulls this miracle off he’ll be indebted to me for life. He’ll send checks and little hand written post cards to stay in touch. He’ll want to know how med school is going and if I ever reconciled with my estranged mother. I’ll of course have to pretend to remember him and refer to my ledger to compose a ‘going through the motions’ response.
It’s the most defining night of this poor saps life. For me, it’s Tuesday and I wish I had ordered the Ribeye.
26secs.
Being addicted to sex isn’t the same as being as addicted to alcohol. Given the choice I’d choose the later at this stage of my life, because then at least sex isn’t a necessity…it can still have meaning.
But what in my life has meaning?
8secs.
I’m almost dead. Dead from having never really lived.
This is the part I’m never prepared for, no matter how many times I’ve done it. The rush and return. The tears, his and mine. The pissing of the pants, the regurgitated food coughed up on his and my shirts and onto the shoes of the couple on their 6month anniversary.
This man has been has been given the opportunity of a lifetime. I’ve been given an excuse to skip out on my tab.
All those lies…did I ever really help anyone?
The stones crash down mightier than they rise.
I can say that I’m a jerk with a big heart, but all I know for certain is this:
I’m a jerk that’s been spared once again.
I’m a jerk.
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