Frog in the Pot

By Richard Beckham II

What’s so difficult about a quarter-life crisis?

It can be difficult if you’re an alcoholic janitor, living alone, clinging to a few friends you can barely relate to, while having no significant other. His name is Alvin Taylor, and he lives in the Seattle area. While on his winter vacation he visits a friend in Bellingham, and after a belligerent encounter with the police he decides to turn his life around...by becoming a crossing guard at an elementary, but even that won’t turn out as he hoped.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Beckham II
• Release date: Jun 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9780984077526

Richard Beckham II

Richard Beckham II is a recipient of a Master of Fine Arts degree from Antioch University Los Angeles, who also graduated with a BA in English from the University of Washington, where he wrote articles for the school’s alternative magazine. He is the author of two novels and various short stories and screenplays. He was the Managing Editor at Gold Man Review and his nights and days are spent in Seattle, Washington, where he paints, plays music, and of course writes.

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FROG IN THE POT

BY RICHARD BECKHAM II

Copyright 2012 Richard Beckham II

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To the loneliness inside us all

If a frog is placed into a pot of boiling water it will immediately try to jump out; but if it’s placed into a pot of cool water that’s gradually heated until boiling, it will stay put and never try to jump out.

There it is; do you hear it? The voice said as I noticed that old familiar, high-pitch ring in my ears. Yeah, I heard it—it was the sound that I could only hear while sitting in complete silence. It’s the kind of sound that could drive a man mad. Yeah, if he sat long enough fixated on it; but I was in no mood to do that anytime soon. If I had a pin I’d drop it; just for the sound, something to stop that God-awful ringing. Even a seashell would bring a silent ocean because there’d be nothing to make its echo. I enjoyed sitting on the toilet though—a good place to think. My navel: for nine months I stared at it, back when it served a purpose. All it did recently was collect lint. Move on, please. Anyway, it didn’t matter if I was on my own toilet or on one that was stained yellow at the airport, I always felt uninhibited—probably because there was no one watching. That’s what you thought. Oh, ha ha.

Got up and flushed. That was a long enough break anyway. Besides, I had to finish cleaning the rest of the bathroom and the school was cold. A custodian’s job is never finished, especially after I made the mess—any kind of mess—like back at home. Whenever I cleaned up after myself it didn’t feel like work. Looking at my watch I saw that it was half-past midnight, shit, I had to get out of there. The bathroom was always the last room I cleaned before I left every night. I found it strange how I’d do the school in a certain order or it wouldn’t feel right. Guess that’s just how I was, liked to keep things in order; give some regularity to them. Didn’t think it was a problem though. Not yet, anyway. What’s that supposed to mean? It never would be a problem. Yeah, I know.

I finished up the boys’ restroom and put my gear back in the closet. Time for the drive home, and vacation. I stepped out the front door and locked it behind me as usual. It was pretty cold out, the sky was clear and some frost was sprinkled around. That year’s winter was more extreme, by Seattle standards—lots of rain, obviously, and more snow than usual; but it never lasted more than a week. The year before was the opposite: very mild with little rain, only snowed once.

I got into my sleek blue Pinto and listened to Rubber Soul on the way home. I-5 was pretty bare, as usual, and I made it home in under a half-hour. I lived in Kent, I guess you could call it downtown Kent, about a 45-minute drive from Seattle during the day. As you know, I lived alone in an apartment complex, just a walk away from all the necessities. I parked in my spot under the carport, went in, drank a glass of OJ, pissed, then hit the bed. Ah, bed. That was something to get into…ha ha. I always had trouble falling asleep; too quiet, so I’d sleep with the window slightly open—no matter what time of year it was, for the noise of the street. There were always trains going by with their horns blaring. Plus, I liked the room to be kind of cold when I got in bed; it made the warmth of the blankets feel that much better. At first the sheets were freezing, then it got nice and toasty.

What a life, Alvin Taylor—no wife, no girlfriend, and very few friends. What was the purpose? What got you off? Almost thirty years old, with no prospects; most people that age are married and live in houses. What did that have to do with me? I had my own life, why follow anybody else’s standards. I guess my purpose was to clean up after people, but I wasn’t bitter about it. Life’s not a test, you know. Then what is it, Alvin? That’s what I’ll try to explain, but I can only use my life as an example—so bear with me. Okay. So I guess this is where I plead my case then, huh? If you want to put it that way....

CHAPTER 1

So I woke up the next morning at the usual time, which was about nine-thirty or ten. It was the first day of my winter vacation, like I mentioned. And since the kids were out of school, I got a break from cleaning the place for a couple weeks, plus it was the holidays, so.…Somebody else was going to go by there and give it a look over during the break. I didn’t have anything to worry about for two weeks. Had no plans either. Guess I could call up my buddy that lives north, by the border; it’d be cold as hell up there though. I didn’t mind since I was a fan of winter; always enjoyed it, even though we never saw much snow. Guess I just liked the feeling I got from it, the smells. I’d rather be too cold than too hot. If you’re too cold you can put on more clothes, but if you’re too hot you’re screwed—even if you take off all you’re clothes you’ll still be hot. Plus, ever since I was a kid, I’ve always found seeing my breath in the cold air kind of cool. Ha ha.

Anyway, I’d probably just call up my folks, that was a given, but not till Christmas got a little closer. I’d have to call my brother up too, I guess. Man, but I haven’t seen Phil, the guy up north, in almost half a year. I closed my eyes and wished I could lay there under the covers forever. What would be the point anyway? I’d have nothing to do and no reason to do anything; so what stopped me from hibernating? The sin of sloth. Yeah well, turtles are sloth-like and they live for a long-ass time. I lay there trying to remember the dream I just had, but I couldn’t reproduce any of the images. I looked over at the red numbers glowing on my alarm clock, what to do, what to do? Gray light fuzzed through the blinds, and I rolled over onto my back. I thought of what I could make for breakfast. Might as well have something big; that’d be a start anyway, and maybe I’d feel better afterwards. I decided on scrambled eggs with bacon. So I slowly got out of bed and slid on my blue robe. Then I made the bed in my usual way—quick.

One thing every man has to do when he wakes up is take a piss, so that’s what I did. Those pisses are right up there with the pisses you take when you’re drunk, they feel so worthwhile—quite a relief. You know you have to take a big piss if you have a dream about pissing; it’s a subconscious thing I guess. Washed up, went to the kitchen, flipped on the stove. Ate at the table in silence then walked into the living room, which was next to the kitchen. How spacious. Turning on the TV I found a game show. I watched that and thought about what I could do. What if I changed my life, or did something out of the ordinary? One thing at a time, buddy.

I had this feeling building up inside me for a while. It was some kind of unreleased energy that accumulated over the years, maybe pent-up frustration or something. Pent-up huh? That’s a good description for it. Kind of like you were caged or even a prisoner and you wanted to do something about it, but couldn’t. In other words, what would you do when you got out of jail? What ARE you when you got out of jail, probably not the same person that you were. Well, I’d be free for a change, and that would give me options; I could do what I wanted, whatever that was. I’d enjoy myself and try to get the most out of this life. But I’m not guilty of anything, so why was I a prisoner in the first place; how come I’m not free now? Do you feel like you’re a prisoner? I thought about that for a few minutes as I got up and went to the liquor cabinet to pour some vodka and OJ.

No, I didn’t feel like a prisoner, I guess. Free will let me do whatever I wanted. If there was a man that committed a crime, is it inevitable that he will be punished? I would have to say yes, most likely. Then would you say it was fated to happen? Like karma-law? Maybe, but everyone has a purpose and a mission to fulfill—that’s their destiny. This goes for each person; this goes for each city, or each state and each country, since we live in one free world. I don’t want to consider myself a prisoner of society; because it’s supposed to be a democratic country, where one’s freedoms are important. But one must also pay the consequences for one’s actions. In time, yes—most likely. So is it free will, or is it fate? What if there is free will, but God knows what you’re going to do anyway? Everything happens for a reason and He is in control of all His creatures. Well, if you say so.

The TV began to look depressing after a few drinks. How could all those old folks go on that show to try and win something? Guess it’s the American Dream to get on television, let alone be given something for nothing. America, what a country! I didn’t think it was all that great—not anymore anyway. It’s become a land of patriotic sinners. The American Way is to take, take, and take, consume, consume, then blame the problem on something besides the culture. Get out of my way, I’m more important! I don’t have to think, because there’s always an excuse, and it’s your fault. Then we try and fix things the same way, year after year. If something didn’t work we keep trying to fix it the same way and maybe it will—one of these days. Another idea would be that those with power could be a little more creative and think of some new way to fix things—but how do they do that? There’s no other way it could work, or so they believe. But this way doesn’t work, it hasn’t worked, so why should it next time? Just have faith in the system, they’d say. See, there’s the obstacle; the belief in yourself and whatever you’re doing is right. If everyone thinks they’re doing the right thing, then who or what could be wrong? There’s always a higher authority that deems what is wrong and what is right. Does that sound like freedom? Man, America is the epitome of civilization and our growing worldwide culture; but the room is running out for those with different beliefs and ideals. Humans believe that they’re the exception to the natural rules of the animal world, like they’re outside of it and play another role. Right, we could do whatever we want since we are, without a doubt, more advanced from any other species on the planet; Maybe we should rule the world then. Maybe we should let the world rule itself or at least try and rectify what we’ve done to this planet.

There was a sense I got from this country, even though it was the only one I knew; I can’t describe it yet, but it seemed like something was missing. Yes, something important, something vital. Maybe it isn’t particular to our country alone; maybe it belongs to all nations. Maybe it’s morals we’re missing; it’s not money, that’s for sure, we’re not missing that. And it’s not garbage and bullshit. I imagined, sometimes, while trying to fall asleep—what this world would be like if American Indians had won and kept out the settlers. Or if the settlers simply joined their way of life, which some did, but embraced it, instead of trying to overpower it. Who’s the stronger: the one who defeats or the one who succumbs to defeat willingly? This would truly be a free land, no garbage and technology to ruin what is natural, no corrupt government to rape the people, figuratively speaking of course; no carrot leading the donkey, which is money on a string. Anarchy—total freedom, self-governing. Guess that’d be too close to heaven for our civilization to handle. There’d be no rules or authority, just communal peace, love, and survival. A few wars here and there, but nothing nuclear, filled with the wrath of Almighty Destruction—only hand-to-hand combat, like other animals. We’d all live to be 100 years old with just 20 gray hairs on our head, to talk in the extreme. Each day would be celebrated and revered as a miracle.

There, cramped in that apartment, or jail cell I should say, I felt like each day was a burden. I asked myself, how? How did it all get that way, and why? Why so much bullshit? I can name two things that your civilization promotes: power and greed. Why doesn’t it thrive on sharing and harmony? If we lived like the Native Americans and the other uncivilized people we’d have more than enough time to philosophize and live contentedly. More time to enjoy life, instead of being caught up in this Goddamned Rat Race for money. During the colonial period settlers called the natives lazy. Well, I don’t mind being called lazy and living like they did, it’d be great—like utopia. Life would be hard—yes, to some extent; but at least it’d be a community working together to survive, unlike the every man for himself mentality. We’d all be smart, because we’d discuss things and think while we weren’t working our few hours a day to survive. I could only dream of what it’d be like, and dream on I would. Can’t turn back time, man. The more our civilization advances the harder we have to work to sustain it, and we’ve gone over the waterfall.

I finished my drink with a large gulp, turned off the TV, and headed for the shower. My clothes were already folded and stacked on the counter next to the sink. I put them there the night before—I always did that unless I came home drunk, then I just went to my room and passed out. My shirt was always on the bottom of the stack with my pants in the middle and boxers on top. I did it that way because that’s the order I put them on. Wow, that’s good to know. I had a routine for my showers also—I miss showers. Why did I even take them anyway? It wasn’t like I had somebody to bathe for. Not like I’d run into anybody I knew. Guess I showered because I’d been conditioned to—keep your body clean, maintain it. Right? Or could it be that you were just getting it clean to wash away the sins of the day before. Maybe, but either way my body would be clean and ready for the coroner. Whatever the reason, I still found the shower to be another good time to think—right up there with before I fell asleep, and when I was on the crapper. All those things had something somewhat in common—nakedness, or at least semi-nakedness. Maybe being naked had something to do with feeling at ease—at least when alone. Standing nude in front of a large crowd of people; that wouldn’t put me at ease, although I’ve never tried it. Maybe I should’ve gone into porn? Nah.

There was something fascinating about my birthday suit though; probably because it was all I had, at the most basic level. I wonder if scientists will ever invent clothes to put on instantaneously after birth and worn for a lifetime—they’d probably be leather. That’d also be un-opinionated fashion. Well, who wants to make their own choices anyway? If you don’t make any choices yourself you always have someone else to blame your mistakes on, right? The responsibility would lie somewhere else. This country’s known as the Land of the Free, but there are so many laws that it made me wonder if I would get away with hanging out in a parking lot because my car wouldn’t start and not end up getting busted for violating the No Loitering Ordinance. Law, rules; who’s really in charge of whom—the parental government?

I mean, whenever a new fad comes out, from the youth most likely, parents would disregard it at first but eventually would have to embrace it to make their kids happy. America’s so youth-oriented that when I was younger I kept thinking I was going to die before I reached age thirty. Ha. Or at least contract some deadly disease that the news flaunted every night. The news was usually, for the most part, bad. So did that mean that it was a bad world we live in, or did that just say people are drawn to the negative? Some people enjoy hearing news; it’s their tie to the rest of society. There’re always good things happening, but they’re usually considered boring. What’s wrong with being bored? It makes time pass slower. Is that good or bad? I don’t know. Both; it depends on how one uses one’s time, either constructively or destructively. Being bored has a sense of freedom to it. But are we drawn to bad news for a reason? It could make one appreciate how well off he or she has it and that pain connects us in a way. Yeah, I guess that’s true.

As I was finishing my shower a thought popped into my head about artists. Artists try to relate mankind with nature, or the natural state of things; they try to bring us all back together by looking at the things we share, our humanity and our vulnerabilities. All those van Gogh landscapes depict his struggle as an artist. He might not have seen what was wrong with the world, but he knew something wasn’t right—and the only way he could express his frustration was through his art. But maybe it wasn’t like that at all; maybe he just loved painting so much that he kept doing it his whole life and had no recognition of that struggle, which was tragic. Perhaps all artists are like that. The cigar-puffing Fat Cats are at the other end of the spectrum. They try to milk this mother for all it’s worth—live in material excess and keep the money flowing, while paying no mind to what really matters. Maybe that’s why so many people wait till they find out they’re dying before they try to really appreciate life.

I walked into the kitchen and poured another drink. By this time it was after eleven and the game show was over. Surfing through the channels made me sort of sink further into the void of my own self-loathing. Then I felt something in my left eye. I blinked and rubbed it as I staggered to the bathroom. Frekking eyelash. In front of the mirror I got it out and looked at it sitting on my fingertip. I had to make a wish, but all my wishes were in vain, right? Anyway, that one was for love. Love for me, maybe, and also love for the world and everyone else. I don’t know why I wished for that; it just popped in there, oh well.

Back in the living room I resumed channel surfing. There was a movie on that I’d seen before and enjoyed. So I watched that till I thought of something better to do. As I watched I started to think about why those movie stars were so rich and revered. Yeah, why do they get all the attention and fruits of life? I know, they just pretend to