Dreams, disappointment and pour me a double

I’d like to spend the next two days drunk.

Not fall down puke your guts out pass out drunk. Comfortably even-keeled inebriated. Enough to dull the pain and soften the anguish and forget for a while.

I dared to hope. Dared to dream. I dared to be positive and think positive and affirm. I dared to be excited about possibilities for a better life and real potential for one. I dared to reach for a star. Not the brightest one perhaps in all of the universe yet bright, indeed.

What a fucking mistake.

Comfortably drunk is good because it takes the edge off. The raw edge of disappointment. Of optimism and hopes raised then crashed to the floor.

I felt the tears rise when he told me the answer was no, I am not getting the job. Because I was there in person and he too in the hallway of the radio station, I could not hide behind the veil of a telephone call. I did not want to be teary-eyed in front of him. So I dried them by will, shut them down for then.

I came close so close. Had a former employee not returned early from a leave, and thus the job going to him, I might very likely be shedding my current job and on my way to work that excites me. Is a passion and a calling and purposeful.

I’d like to be drunk for the next two days. Because today, after several days of being high on hope and the potential for happiness and a REAL POSITIVE CHANGE in my life and work, today I resume a job that means nothing to me, save for a means of survival and barely that at a part-time minimum-wage status.

Today, after days of being fueled by a dream, I resume slogging through my day, doing a job of a 22-year-old at 57, hurting my injured shoulder, aggravating my misaligned and stress-filled back, pushing myself past natural limits into exhaustion for the sake of the clock and management dictates that room cleans are to be completed in x-minutes.

Today I resume how things have been for the past 10 years, excepting three darkest years of unemployment and six months of a writing job at a small-town paper. Doing nothing I care about outside of my work ethics, getting paid crumbs to do it and inside crying, screaming, begging, pleading, yearning and reaching for release.

Praying and affirming and hoping and praying and affirming and hoping again through my days and evenings for a chance. For someone to give me an opportunity, for a door to open that’ll put me back on purpose and path. Years and years like that.

And I’ve done that. Oh yes, I have. The praying, the staying positive and being positive, the writing, the affirming, the reaching for the light and staying focused on the light even as shit surrounds me.

I’ve done that in real ways, committed ways, with dedication and diligence, steadfastly and undeterred by all the elements that bring me down or could bring me down.

And so when the answer was no — again — for the second time with this specific station and the thousandth time in efforts for jobs desired and not-so-much desired. I crashed.

Well, no I didn’t. I went into a ballistic tailspin. A spin fueled by years and years and years of disappointments. Of best intentions and sincere loving intentions met by slammed doors and towering brick walls. By NO. A spin fueled by years and years of reaching for something … better … and closer to my heart.

If it weren’t for the fact that I’ve gotta go now and fall back onto my knees to scrub bathroom floors and toilets and tuck in sheets and comforters … to strip sheets and pillowcases off king-sized beds and empty trashcans and dust every surface and don’t forget inside the fridges and microwaves …

… if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve gotta go now and trot — not walk — here to there and back here in the heat and force force force my shoulder past constrictive pain to accomplish the tasks …

… if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve gotta go be something I’m not and pretend that I’m nobody except a cleaner … if it weren’t for the fact that my dreams, only freshly resurrected from the despicable ashes of Tacoma and Washington state, are wrought in their tender infancy yet again to nothing …

if it weren’t for all that and the all-important overriding fact that I need a job — a job a job it’s a job — I’d spend the next two days drunk. Comfortably inebriated. Just enough to take the edge off, dull the pain and the anguish of another disappointment, a meaningful disappointment, and my fucking mistake of daring to hope and to dream.