Last week’s installment left the first-person narrator in “Sin City”–Las Vegas–mindlessly gambling and drinking, wondering why he, a trustworthy guy, can’t find true love.
By Brent J. Walker
When you ask most women what their dream man is, they say something like this: “I want a guy who is tall, dark, handsome, and romantic. Someone who likes long walks on the beach, puppies, and kittens. Someone who likes to cuddle and watch movies, someone who can make me laugh, someone who is kind and gentle and will go out of his way to make me happy when I’ve had a bad day.” Well, that’s funny, because I am all those things, and I can’t keep a woman to save my life.
Am I tall? Check! I’m above six foot; I think that counts as tall. Am I handsome? Check! I have beautiful baby blue eyes, a strong jawline and a symmetrical face which studies have shown is attractive to somewhere around 90 percent of women. Am I r1omantic? I am as romantic as they come. When you have a creative mind like I do and have been single and alone as long as I have, you spend all day thinking about what you will do if a woman were to finally come into your life. Do I like long walks on the beach? Holding hands with my woman while we feel the sand beneath our feet, stare at the moon, and listen to the waves crash on the beach sounds pretty awesome to me. Am I someone who loves puppies and kittens? Absolutely. I adore animals, and they, me. Animals are easy. All they want is to be petted and loved, and at times rewarded with a treat. I can certainly understand that. I am a simple man; that’s all I want, too. An animal’s senses puts human senses to shame. They can sense when someone’s soul is pure, which is why they gravitate towards me, I think. Am I someone who likes to cuddle and watch movies? Hell, that’s pretty much all I want. Never underestimate the power of human touch. A simple hug enhances one’s mood tremendously, as studies have also shown. Sex is great and all, but it is the simple act of hugging and cuddling that I find I miss the most about having a girl. Do I have a sense of humor? I am pretty quick-witted. You get me in a room with people I am comfortable with, and I’ll get you laughing in no time. Am I kind, gentle, and have the ability to make someone happy when they are sad? Check, check, and check. So tell me then. Why in the hell I am alone in this world? Everyone deserves to be loved. So why does a good person like me get his heart broken, over and over again?
I’ll tell you why. I suffer a disease of the mind. It’s called shyness. Make no mistake; shyness is a debilitating disorder. I can’t get over it. I’ve tried my whole life. For instance, on my left about two machines over is a petite, blond-haired beauty sitting alone. I should talk to her, but I won’t. Why not?
“People are people. We all need other humans around us in this world to stay sane, and the ability to converse with each other is what differentiates us from beasts,” a friend once told me. He is absolutely correct. Inherently, I know that his logic is true, but there is a blockage in my brain that prevents me from acting out on that logic. Unless you, too, have the disease of shyness, you just can’t fully understand where I am coming from. I’m gonna try to get you to anyway, though, by putting you in my brain for a bit. Here’s a list of just some of the thoughts that came to my mind within seconds of seeing that pretty young thing over there at that machine that prevent me from talking to her.
- You’ve let yourself go over the years. You aren’t the strapping, muscular young man you once were; she won’t be attracted to you.
- Look at how hot that girl is! She’s probably been hit on by at least ten guys already tonight. That has to be annoying for her. I don’t want to be like everyone else. Besides, what do I have that the other ten guys she rejected tonight didn’t?
- She’s probably already got a man anyway, so why waste my time?
- Even if I do get the nerve to go up to her and strike up a conversation, I will quickly freeze up and embarrass myself.
- I am sure she wants to be left alone and will just tell me to go away.
- What the hell would we talk about? The weather? Isn’t that the world symbol for most boring conversation starter of all time?
- I bet as soon as I start talking, her boyfriend will pop up out of nowhere, take offense, and sock me in the face.
- She’ll know right away that I am lower middle class. Only a guy with money can get a girl like that.
- Shit! I lost my pack of gum, and I have been drinking and smoking all day. I bet my breath is horrible.
- Tonight’s priority was to gamble and get wasted, not to talk to women. So I am just going to keep doing that.
That’s just a top ten list of thoughts that go through my mind in this situation. There is plenty more I could write down, but it would take way too long to go over them all. Damn, this is frustrating. How do I shut these thoughts off? I know they are mostly illogical. I once heard this kind of behavior called “analysis paralysis.” I like that; it’s a fitting name, and it has a ring to it.
Whoops, there goes my mind again, churning as endlessly as the sea. They say this is the city that never sleeps. Well, neither does this brain of mine. Maybe that’s why I am so drawn to this place. Now, where in the hell is that cocktail waitress? Never mind, I still have half a beer, and it’s not warm yet. Might as well take another long pull and spin that damn wheel again. Round and round the slot machine goes, where it stops nobody knows. But when it does finally stop, it sure as shit won’t stop at the jackpot; that’s for sure. Never seen that happen and probably never will.
Hey, will you look at that? Multiple cherries on the board. That has to be good. I’ll be damned; that spin just won me twenty bucks. From ten dollars left in the coffer to thirty, just like that. Puts me ten bucks ahead on the night. Joke is on you, “Sin City” I’m ten bucks and two beers up now. Ha, ha, I’m feeling generous, too. If that cocktailer ever shows up, she gets a two-dollar tip now.
I should probably quit while I am ahead….but I won’t. Go big or go home is what I always say. Not that the twenty bucks I originally put in the machine qualifies as going big, but you get the point. Cherries are always good, in slots, in scratch tickets, and even in pull tabs. Wonder why that is? Maybe the first slot machine creator ever just really liked cherries and was like, “Hey, let’s make three cherries a win,” for no reason at all. Or maybe it’s symbolic of something. Who really knows?
Sevens are always good, too. But that makes more sense. “God created the heavens and the earth in six days, and on the seventh he rested.” Seven continents and seven oceans on Earth, seven colors in a rainbow, seven days in a week. Seven is considered lucky to most people. Not to me, though. I was born in the seventh month of the year, but I ain’t lucky, never have been and never will be, so I prefer thirteen; it’s my lucky number. I figure since I am unlucky, and the number thirteen is unlucky, that when we add them together, they cancel each other out. How did I reach this conclusion? I have no idea. Superstitions are funny like that and can be literally anything. Athletes often don’t shave their beards or cut their hair for months at a time if they are on a hot streak, which doesn’t make sense. Long hair makes it harder to see and gets in the way. Seems to me this would make it harder for them to perform at a top level in their respective sports. Rabbits are basically just cute little rodents, but for some reason murdering them, chopping off their feet, and wearing one around your neck is considered lucky. Cinnamon sticks, socks, goldfish, hell, even spiders are sometimes considered lucky, and most people hate them. Almost everyone has a good luck charm of some sort and usually for an illogical reason.
Ah, here she comes with my beer. ʼBout time. She is certainly a busty gal. She’s a bit older, though. In her late forties at least, but still, overall, pretty spectacular breasts that are only just barely starting to droop. They say a stripper’s primo years are between 18-25; once they are closer to 30 than 20, it’s all over. Might as well quit. So where do they go for employment when they are considered too old to strip? They become cocktailers, of course.
See, I can be funny when I want to be. Or was that joke more offensive than funny? Maybe it was. I always think I am a good guy with a high moral compass, but maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe I am just a dick and deserve what I get. She hands me my beer. I hand her a buck. Was going to give her two, but changed my mind. I consider myself a patient, understanding man, but even I have my limits, and she took forever. I think it did anyways.
Is it time for another smoke? I think it is. Got me a fresh beer and currently up some money on this slot. No need to rush and keep spinning the wheels. More time I take in between spins, the longer I can play before I lose it all, and I will lose it all eventually.
I exhale the smoke through my nose. Damn these devil sticks. But like I said, it was a rough year. Aside from getting my heart broken again, my father died. I’m glad, though. The man was in pain for far too long, his quality of life horrendous for years. It was Huntington’s disease that got him. Ever heard of it? Of course you haven’t. No one has unless they’ve gone through it with a family member themselves, which is ironic, because it is one of the most devastating diseases in the world. Have your heard of ALS? Lou Gehrig’s disease? I’m sure you have because the ice bucket challenge that was clogging Facebook feeds for months brought all sorts of attention to that disease. How about Alzheimer’s? I’m sure you’ve heard of that, too. It’s been well documented in movies, books, and songs. How about Parkinson’s? Michael J. Fox has brought all sorts of knowledge to the masses about that one. Well, Huntington’s was compared to having a combination of all three at the same time on a recent documentary, yet so few people know anything about it.
My father was diagnosed with it probably about twenty years before his death. It is a neurological disorder. It begins when a small part of your brain doesn’t work correctly, and basically over time erodes your entire brain, or something like that. Haven’t researched it much because it bums me out too much. It starts with small symptoms. Maybe some minor memory loss, forget a word here and there, maybe lose your balance every so often. No big deal at first. Then it starts getting worse, and the constant, jerky movements start. Neurons in your brain start misfiring more and more, and your body starts moving whenever it wants, and your brain can’t control it. People with HD in the olden days were often mistaken for witches and burnt at the stake. After that, you eventually start the latter stages, which is the inability to talk or move or think properly. My father was like that for the better part of a decade. Twenty-four-hour care was required to feed, bathe, and wipe his ass. My father, the West Point military grad who played college football and ran in the Boston Marathon, couldn’t even wipe his own ass. Can you imagine seeing your father like that for nearly a decade?
That’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that aside from it being incurable, each kid has a 50 percent chance of inheriting it. As if watching my father decline and die for years wasn’t bad enough, I had to watch my father’s brother die of it as well, and my grandma, too, and while I was watching them die, the entire time I’m thinking, “Sweet. This could be my future.” I also have two siblings. Both have been tested. My little sister has it, and my older brother doesn’t, so assuming I am capable of thinking in the future, I will have to watch her die, too. Not me, though. I remain the sole untested Davis child. Fuck that shit. I wouldn’t be able to handle it if was positive because I am single, and I live alone. Not only would I not have the emotional support of a girlfriend or fiancé like my siblings did when they went through the testing process, but what is the point of getting tested for something that has no cure? There are only two valid reasons to get tested, in my opinion. If there was a viable treatment option, then obviously I would want to get tested immediately and start the treatment. Or if I was married and we wanted to have kids, because there is no way I am passing this disease on to them. I would adopt or abort before I did that.
At this point, I have pretty much accepted the fact that I will most likely die single and alone, so I guess fingers crossed for a cure or some kind of treatment, but it doesn’t really matter at this point. For now I will remain untested. Can you blame me? What would you do if you were in my situation, and literally the flip of a coin was what would determine whether you would become terminally ill or not? For the most part, I have kept this part of my life a secret. The last thing I want is for people to pity me. Very few people know about it.
To be continued next Wednesday, February 1
You can hear Help 4 HD Live!’s interview with Brent on BlogTalkRadio: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/help4hd/2017/01/18/an-interview-with-brent-walker-author-of-look-up