Inspirational Awakening

The blaring sound leapt under Jerry’s skin and strangled him awake in an instant. His eyes popped open in terror and for a darkened moment he forgot where he was.

“Oh, Jeeze,” he exclaimed in sudden realization—“the freekin’ alarm.”

He slammed his wrist on the snooze button and flopped back on the bed.

Nine minutes later the blare cried out again though the awareness came much quicker. Jerry smacked the clock and rolled his feet off the side and out from under the sheets. Slug-like, he dragged his sagging carcass into the bathroom and looked at the face that stared back at him in the mirror.

“Ugh,” he muttered. “Nice breath,” he added as he frowned and reached for a crusty toothbrush.

Only the growling in his paunch kept him from crawling once more beneath the covers, coupled with the painful knowledge that without a paycheck the cupboard would stand ever more bare and stay that way indefinitely.

“Life blows,” he mumbled, scratching peanut butter onto the last nub of bread from a week-old loaf.

Throughout the day, as he most often did, Jerry ran the gamut of emotions, up, down, high, low, from the heavens to the depths, like a yo-yo.

His burst of creativity left him giddy only to morph into a morbid employment dread when the boss shot down his idea.

Jerry rode hard, dominated by one feeling after another, unable to separate or manage or compartmentalize—a black and white tango that left no room for gray.

Upon arrival at home, Jerry walked straight to the mailbox and stood in ritual, leafing through the daily arrivals.

“What?” he exclaimed, a sudden burst of exhilaration.

The envelope read U.S. Treasury across the top.

He ripped it open and began a disjointed funky chicken on the sidewalk.

“Pay to the order of ME—you know that’s right,” he grunted as he spied his income tax refund.

His bliss came to a jarring halt as he recognized the handwriting on an oversized card beneath the check.

She hadn’t returned his calls in several days and though he had tried not to over-analyze, the sinking torment in his gut spoke volumes of his suspicions.

He tore the flap.

Dear Jerry,
This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done…

He sank to the ground, sat on his front lawn with his head in his hands, frozen. Numbness turned to anger turned to denial, to sorrow and into frustration, to a desire to regain numbness and a quest for his favorite bottle. The unexpected funds mattered little if at all.

Jerry found himself on the couch, alone, with no more company than his misery and his muse.

“Why does this always happen to me?” he questioned.

“Why can’t I catch a break? Why can’t I spend some time in cruise mode—live a normal space, mellow, stable, even keel—for at least a minute?”

He knew himself well enough not to expect an answer.

He had made this query many times before.

“Why can’t I balance better? Why can’t my pain and pleasure co-exist? Not like she hasn’t discarded me before—why does the rejection so over-shadow my good fortune? Why don’t I have any control?”

Still, he persisted, like a dog on a bone.

“If I’m me, then I need to accept me, feast or famine Jerry, the good and the bad, over the top to rock bottom—that’s me.”

A slight smile returned.

“Yup. That’s me,” he reassured himself. “In my sorrow, I’ll find joy. In my hurt, I’ll dig up some love. That’s me, yo-yo Jerry.”

He stopped nursing the bottle, set it on the coffee table and picked up the stack of mail, all except the card.

“Yup,” he repeated. “Not bad, not bad.”

He grinned and started laughing.

“Yeah, baby. Pay to the order of…”

That’s A View From The Ridge…

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