Which Way From Here - page 2
Filed in:
Chapter One
Written By:
Troy Brosnan Abington,
MA
September 2006
“Pack of Camel’s and a Boston Globe.”
“Is that it buddy?”
“Yeah, that’s it”. I reply.
I’m up to about two packs a day. My lungs hurt and my fingers reek of tar and nicotine. When the questions, “How are you?” Or “How have you been?” Are asked to me, the response rarely changes. I usually find a way to answer in one word replies; FINE is a good conversation stopper, a good conversation deterrent is “Did you catch the Sox game last night?” I find though it only works well in Boston… Or Chicago. When in New York I will use the Yankees, but in all honesty nobody talks to me in New York unless I know them.
My name is David Solomon, my wife Michelle passed away nearly four years ago, I have been lost since. I Tivo about forty hours of television a week and watch about seventy five. I have written Ninety five screenplays in just about as many months, five sitcoms and a better version of the Bible. My version. It doesn’t get anyone’s hopes up and there is no happy ending. Oh, and Noah doesn’t build a fucking ark. I work the nightshift at Boston Help, a suicide help line. I spend most of my time talking drunken Red Sox fans out of putting down the Ladies Bic at two thirty in the morning when the bars close. “There’s always next year.” I tell them, and end the conversation with one word. “Believe.” It’s funny, I don’t believe in anything, and haven’t for nearly four years. My life consists of filling people’s heads with the exact opposite of everything I believe in. My friends don’t come around anymore, rarely call, believe it or not it is getting easier. I get invitations to weddings, dinner parties but I have convinced myself that they are pity invites. They always read Mr. David Solomon… Never Mr. David Solomon and Guest, they are probably right though, nobody could ever live up to my Michelle. One day I will stroll into a dinner party or show up to a wedding. What would that be like? What would they say?
I’m a lonely thirty one year old. Things need to change, this isn’t who I am. I need to stop wallowing in self pity and actually change, become the man that she would want me to be. I’m not this sad.
“David, we seem to be caught in the same circle we have been in for months. You seem to be making progress then you leave here and go to a bar, or something destructive. If you don’t want to help yourself then I can’t help you. You have segregated yourself from all your friends and family. You have cut your existence down to your job, and television. I’d mention your endless writing but I believe that is the only therapy that may be working right now. You need to contact your friends and family. It’s not healthy to do what you are doing to yourself. You will drive yourself into deeper depression. It’s no way to live. “
September 2006
“Pack of Camel’s and a Boston Globe.”
“Is that it buddy?”
“Yeah, that’s it”. I reply.
I’m up to about two packs a day. My lungs hurt and my fingers reek of tar and nicotine. When the questions, “How are you?” Or “How have you been?” Are asked to me, the response rarely changes. I usually find a way to answer in one word replies; FINE is a good conversation stopper, a good conversation deterrent is “Did you catch the Sox game last night?” I find though it only works well in Boston… Or Chicago. When in New York I will use the Yankees, but in all honesty nobody talks to me in New York unless I know them.
My name is David Solomon, my wife Michelle passed away nearly four years ago, I have been lost since. I Tivo about forty hours of television a week and watch about seventy five. I have written Ninety five screenplays in just about as many months, five sitcoms and a better version of the Bible. My version. It doesn’t get anyone’s hopes up and there is no happy ending. Oh, and Noah doesn’t build a fucking ark. I work the nightshift at Boston Help, a suicide help line. I spend most of my time talking drunken Red Sox fans out of putting down the Ladies Bic at two thirty in the morning when the bars close. “There’s always next year.” I tell them, and end the conversation with one word. “Believe.” It’s funny, I don’t believe in anything, and haven’t for nearly four years. My life consists of filling people’s heads with the exact opposite of everything I believe in. My friends don’t come around anymore, rarely call, believe it or not it is getting easier. I get invitations to weddings, dinner parties but I have convinced myself that they are pity invites. They always read Mr. David Solomon… Never Mr. David Solomon and Guest, they are probably right though, nobody could ever live up to my Michelle. One day I will stroll into a dinner party or show up to a wedding. What would that be like? What would they say?
I’m a lonely thirty one year old. Things need to change, this isn’t who I am. I need to stop wallowing in self pity and actually change, become the man that she would want me to be. I’m not this sad.
“David, we seem to be caught in the same circle we have been in for months. You seem to be making progress then you leave here and go to a bar, or something destructive. If you don’t want to help yourself then I can’t help you. You have segregated yourself from all your friends and family. You have cut your existence down to your job, and television. I’d mention your endless writing but I believe that is the only therapy that may be working right now. You need to contact your friends and family. It’s not healthy to do what you are doing to yourself. You will drive yourself into deeper depression. It’s no way to live. “
