Jordan Antonacci's Blog, page 42

I’ve Moved to Austin

Warning: There’s not really anything in this post. Just a life update. That’s all.

As like 5 of you know (if that), just over a year ago I quit my job in HV/AC, sold everything I had in 3 days, moved into my car and started traveling the US. Some may have called it a sub-psychotic  break, but I disagree.

It was 100% a complete psychotic break.

In the past year, I’ve been everywhere, as I’m sure you can imagine: trips from the Carolina’s to the beaches on the West Coast; from the beaches in Florida to the Niagara Falls and everywhere in between. I actually made four total cross country trips. Cray, right? I’ve slept in hotel parking lots, Walmart parking lots, sketchy rest stops where I typically slept with a knife, and I’ve even slept in the woods, which was by far my favorite. Thanks to the few good people left in this world, I also did some couch surfing. And thanks to a couple of dating apps, I’ve made connections…well, all over the US! A good majority of the past year was spent in either Southern California where the weather is always perfect for living in your car or in TN (home) hiking The Great Smoky Mountains. There’s nowhere like East TN during the fall, and if you haven’t yet been, then fear not, for it isn’t too late. Get over there before all the leaves are gone, hurry!

This whole year has been quite an experience to say the least. A lot of highs, a lot of low lows; a lot of good times, and a lot of struggles that put me in a pretty bad place–but I wouldn’t go back and change a thing for the world. I’ll talk about this more in another post.

[image error]© 2019 Jordan Antonacci

During my last trip in CA, my mom started being all weird as she started trying to subtly tell me something. You know that thing moms do when they throw you hints because they’re afraid of being too straightforward? SMH. Long story short, I had to guess that they were moving back to Texas. I was caught off guard because my parents had promised everyone no more moving. Yet here they were. Already talking to realtors. Already doing showings. Honestly though, everyone was pretty excited. My youngest brother and niece aren’t too fond of CA, and neither is my aunt because she pays $1,700 for a shitty one bedroom and they just bumped it up to $1,800. Gas is literally twice as much as TX. Dumb.

Anyway, I was pretty pumped about the move too. I could afford TX. For the first time since I moved out at 18, I’d be able to live in the same state as everyone. So I packed up and drove back to TN, telling my mom I’d think about it. Over the next few weeks, I did just that. Thought. A lot. Before long, the idea of a new apartment began to entice me. I could almost hear it whispering come hither. Then I awoke one 30-degree morning and, while cocooned in my sleeping bag, decided I’d do it.

I’d move back to fucking Texas!

So after taking a piss by a tree, I wiped the ice off my windows, blasted my heat, and hit the road. I spent the night in Dallas and stopped by the apartments I used to live at to say Hi and ask for a reference. Then I hopped back on the interstate and continued south for four more hours to Austin, passing Waco on the way where I waved to Chip and Joanna Gaines. Not sure if they saw me or not.

I’d never been to Austin. What would it be like? Would I even like it? Could I actually make this happen or was I destined to sleep in the back of my SUV for another year? That thought filled me with doom. I was sick of living in my car. I wanted walls, running water, and a place to write, DAMMIT!

For a week, I slept in hotel parking lots while looking for a job, occasionally sneaking into the hotels during the mornings for the breakfast buffet. Good shit. After securing income, I spent two days doing literally nothing but touring apartments until I found It. Yes, It. The One. The last on my list. I’d almost given up hope. I fell in love as soon as I heard it whisper come hither. So come hither I did.

The next day I filled out an application, paid the stupid fees, then threw down that deposit like it was a football and I’d just scored the winning touchdown baby! Two days later, I moved into my new apartment

Hate / Love the Day – A Poem

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I had a breakdown today

Not a whole lot to say

It was the first time I’d cried

in 193 days

The day was all right

Found some new jobs online

It’s not what I wanna do, but

I guess I’ll give it a try

I went ahead and applied

just to say that I tried

The day was pretty great

I’ve got a date at 8

I even went apartment hunting

Found a new place

Hip hip hooray

I had a breakdown today

Had that interview at ten

I thought I did okay, but

they said, ‘Thanks for coming in.’

So that apartment I wanna get?

Can’t afford the rent

Now I’m back to sleeping in my car

on a path to a dead end

And that girl I was supposed to meet

said she’d be late

Then she never even showed, but

I knew that in the first place

I had a breakdown today

Feels like everyday’s the same

This expression on my face

I can’t seem to change

Blank like a page

I don’t know what to say

blah blah blah

Yeah I’m okay

Drove to a place

where I could hide my face

Let out a poison

that turned the skies grey

Tears flowed in streams

I could barely even see

Screamed till I thought

my own ears would bleed

Then I wiped it all away

Went back out on stage

Smiled and said

‘Today was great!’

“The Woman in the Red Dress” – Short Story

The Woman in the Red Dress

Six months had passed since ex-cop John Michaels had been forced to retire early from the Memphis Police Department—but the wound was still fresh.

It was a Friday night at Blake’s Bar and Grill, a popular restaurant in the heart of the city, and just down the street from where John lived. He sat by himself at the bar, his thick wool jacket hanging on the back of the bar stool. The weather was bleak on this night in Memphis, Tennessee, and had been for the past week or so, ever since Winter Storm Wesley had come through with its thundersnow and quarter-sized hail. For a couple of days, half the power in the town had been knocked out. A foot of snow had covered the ground and the streets had been turned to solid ice. News broadcasts had reported the storm as being the worst the city had seen in over two decades. But it was finally over. The power was back on, and the snow had melted just enough to allow the local bars and nightclubs to reopen. Just in time for the weekend.

“I swear the people in here get younger and younger every night. Sometimes I think I’m the only one who’s aging,” a bearded man to John’s right said. His face was sagging and hair gray.

John couldn’t tell if he was talking to him or to himself. Still, he replied, “I hear ya.”

Thinking about the time, John glanced up at the clock on the wall above the bar. It read 3:13. Confused, he looked at the other clock by the door. It too said the time was 3:13. “That’s weird,” John said. “Both of those clocks stopped at the same time.”

“Huh, that is weird,” the man agreed. He checked his wristwatch. “It’s six past ten. ‘Bout time for me to get back to the missus.” He downed what was left in his glass then looked out the window. “Weather sure is killer out there.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s pretty bad. At least it’s not as bad as it was.”

“I reckon that’s one way of looking at it.” The man had a voice like gravel. “But boy, what I wouldn’t give to be in Hawaii right now.”

John looked at the man. The man smiled at John through his beard then got up and left.

Blake’s was fairly packed on this night. Looked like everyone who was brave (or crazy) enough to get out on the roads was there, searching for warmth and shelter in the restaurant. Everyone was either playing pool, getting drunk, or sitting at tables with full plates as they ate and talked with family and friends. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Not John, though.

This was the first time John had stepped foot back into public ever since the incident that changed his life for the worse. And all he could think—the only thing on his mind—was fourteen years.

Over a decade of John’s life had been given to the department, and for what? So he could have it all torn away from him? So he could have his name tainted by the papers and robbed of the legacy he’d built? The life John had tediously put together brick by brick was crumbling to dust and debris all around his feet, and there was nothing he could do about it. What made it worse was that it was all at the mercy of his own hands. After all, he was the one who couldn’t pull the trigger.

John had always imagined he’d be able to take the shot if the moment ever came, but when it did, he hesitated. That split-second in time came at the cost of multiple innocent lives. Now, the faces of those he couldn’t save were forever imprinted, branded, and carved into the backs of his eyelids. The most he could now was forget. Erase the old and build a new. The best way he knew to do that? Drink.

“What’ll it be?” asked the bartender, a baby-faced man with short spiked hair.

John contemplated on a beer, but he needed something fast. Fast and hard. “Jack, please. Neat.”

“Coming up.”

The bartender sat a drink on a cork coaster in front of John.

“Thanks,” John said, hardly looking the bartender in the eye.

“Of course. And hey, for what it’s worth, I never believed what they said. Papers, news… fuck em’. Let me know if you need anything else, Detective.”

John nodded. He knew the barkeep meant well, which was nice for a change, but John didn’t want pity. He didn’t want for anyone to ‘understand’ or to be on his side. All he wanted was for it all to go away. The days of walking down the street without whispers on every curb and eyes on every corner were the simple days he longed for. Days that were long gone.

John was sipping his drink when a woman took the empty space beside him at the bar. Her scent grabbed his attention before the sight of her even had a chance to. Something sweet like warm vanilla and sugar. It wrapped around him like a leash and pulled him in. He glanced over to steal a sight of the woman. She stood at the bar wearing a tight red dress that hugged the curves of her slim figure. A straw sun hat sat snug on her head; the floppy wide brim blocking out the hazy lights above and casting a shadow that hid her face. Her long rose gold hair ran from beneath the hat like a stream over her shoulders and down her back. And there was something about her—something John couldn’t quite pin—that was familiar to him. It was a sense of familiarity in the strangest way because it came like a storm of déjà vu and left just as quick.

She spoke softly as she ordered a drink. “One Martini please.” Her voice was smooth like a melody and faint like smoke.

John went back to his drink. He finished the rest of what was in his glass and called the bartender back for a second—an attempt to put his focus elsewhere.

An attempt that didn’t work.

His attention kept gravitating to her, to that woman in the red dress. Where in the hell did he know her from? He fought to keep his eyes to himself, but it seemed as if they belonged to her now, whoever she was. Did he recognize her from work? Was she a reporter? Someone famous maybe?

The bartender sat a martini on a napkin in front of the woman. “Let me know if you need another,” he said.

“One’s enough. Thanks.” The woman then scooped up her drink and put some cash in its place.

Just then, John noticed a large rose tattoo on the back of her right hand.

Delicately wielding the glass by its stem, the woman walked over to the jukebox. She slipped a couple of coins into the coin slot and pressed some buttons. ‘Tiny Dancer’ by Elton John began to play. The woman then sat at an empty round table in the back corner of the room and slowly sipped her martini.

“Hey,” John said to the bartender as he passed. He made a subtle gesture to the woman. “That girl. Do you know her?”

The bartender frowned. “Uh, no. Can’t say I wouldn’t want to, though. She’s gorgeous.”

“You’re sure? She doesn’t look familiar at all? Maybe like someone on T.V.?”

“Can’t say I’ve ever seen her before. Sorry.” The bartender went back to wiping down glasses.

In a room full of people, everybody faded to black and white. Every sound was killed at the mercy of that song that poured from the jukebox and flooded the room. All John could see was that red dress as it tore through the crowd like a bullet. When she finished her drink, the woman in red stood from her table and sauntered through the room like a beam of light breaking through darkness. The soft clacks of her shoes on the wooden floor echoed in John’s ears.

Then she left.

John sat rigid as his eyes burned a hole into the bottom of his now empty glass. Not fifteen seconds had passed since the woman had left. The song she’d put on came to an end.

“Fuck,” John whispered to himself with a sigh.

He pulled a crumpled-up wad of cash from his pocket, tossed it on the counter, and followed the vanilla scent out the door. John stepped outside and was smacked with a wall of air as cold as ice. He zipped his jacket up to his chin and crammed his hands into his pockets. Then he saw her up ahead, walking down the sidewalk beneath a streetlight that may as well have been a spotlight, her arms and legs bare to the frigid winds. With his shoulders hunched against the cold, John followed the woman in the red dress.

The hour was nearing late, and the wintry air had herded everyone from the streets into local bars, coffee shops, and restaurants. John followed the woman east down Madison, his boots crunching in the snow with every step. She passed North 2nd Street, then continued on to North 4th. And all the while John followed her, he felt something following him. Lingering with him like a shadow, was a feeling. Déjà vu continued to blindside him; distant memories from an unknown place came and went like falling pieces of a puzzle. He tried to catch them, tried to get a grip to maybe put them together, but they fell through his fingers like sand. As odd as it was, it wasn’t the strangest thing that had happened that night, and it wasn’t near as strange as what was coming.

John watched the woman in red turn left into an alley between some buildings, one of which was a nightclub called The Night Owl. His feet shuffled quicker as he hurried to catch up. When John turned the corner, he saw the woman in red standing in the middle of the alley, facing him. Her hat threw a shadow that continued to hide most of her face. A nearby streetlight offered a faint glow that was just enough to reveal the grin that grew across her lips. Unsure of what to do, John inched toward her.

“You’re following me,” she said.

John’s head angled. “I’m not.”

“Why do you lie to me, John?”

“How do you know my name?” The woman didn’t respond. “Who are you?”

“You mean, you don’t remember me? I’m not sure if I should be offended or not.” There was a silence. “Try to remember,” the woman said as she raised a hand to brush a piece of hair from her face. Again, John noticed the rose tattoo on the back of her hand.

“I—I can’t remember,” he stuttered.

“Aw. Well that’s okay. Would you like to remember?” The woman asked, still grinning.

John nodded.

“Of course you would. Come this way.” The woman opened the side door to the nightclub and disappeared inside.

John took a step and heard his shoe land on something solid that made a clinking sound. He looked down to see a metal chain and a padlock on the ground. Then, he noticed something that grabbed the eyes right out of his head. Chills like the legs of a spider crawled across his arms and down his back. In the dark at the far end of the alley stood a figure. A silhouette in the shape of a man, blacker than the black it stood in.

“Coming?” asked the woman from the doorway, interrupting the sight.

Looking back at the end of the alley, John saw the figure was gone. “Yeah,” he said, following the woman into the nightclub.

Colorful lights flashed and beamed from the high ceilings down onto a bouncing crowd on the dancefloor. The woman in the red dress lead John into the crowd.

“Hey,” John said. Even when shouting he could still barely hear himself over the music. “Why don’t you make this easier for both of us and just tell me who you are?”

“Because you know who I am. It’s not me who’s hiding who I am, it’s you,” the woman said. “Answer me this: why did you follow me?”

“Because I thought you looked familiar.”

The woman chuckled softly. “John. How are you going to remember if you keep lying to yourself? Look around. You don’t remember this place either?” She waited a moment but John didn’t answer. “Now, who am I?”

John glanced around at the club then shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Who. Am I?” the woman repeated, more aggressively this time.

“I just told you I don’t know.”

The woman took a step closer to John. Close enough so that he could smell the vanilla. “My tattoo. What is it?”

“It’s a flower.”

“But what is it?”

John stared down at the back of her hand. “It’s a rose.” Then he thought. “It’s a rose…. Rose.”

As the song that blared through the speakers faded to an end, the next began. It was ‘Tiny Dancer,’ by Elton John, the same song the woman had played on the jukebox at the bar down the street. That song—for reasons John couldn’t explain—was speaking to him like the lingering fear left from a nightmare he couldn’t remember.

“Let me help you,” the woman said.

The woman grabbed John’s hand and triggered something inside of him he never knew existed. It was like a switch he’d never known was there had just been flipped. He put his other hand on her waist like it belonged there, and she circled her arm around his neck, pulling him close. She pressed her body into his.

“Do you remember now?” the woman asked.

For John, it was like his heart remembered but his mind couldn’t. All he had were the feelings of a memory that his mind had tossed out.

“No,” John replied.

Fireworks sounded off outside the club. The woman whispered something, but John couldn’t make it out.

“What?” John asked. He turned his ear to her.

“…so cold. I’m so cold. I’m so cold. I’m so cold…”

John watched the woman’s lips turn pale as the blood ran from them. In that moment, a sudden flood of memories knocked the breath out of John. Just like that, he remembered.

It was a summer night. After finishing his last shift before vacation, Detective John Michaels of the MPD headed to Blake’s Bar and Grill for a drink. In his hand was a paper gift bag. John took an empty space at the bar and sat the bag on the counter.

“What’ll it be, Detective?” asked the bartender.

“Jack, please. Neat.”

“Coming up.”

John twisted the wedding band on his ring finger as he waited for his drink. Then two arms wrapped around his stomach from behind, and a face nestled against his back. Looking down, he saw a rose tattoo on the back of one of the hands that held him. He turned to see a petite woman, the brim of her straw hat casting a shadow that hid her face. Her rose gold hair flowed with ease over her shoulders and stopped halfway down her back. She was dressed in a sleeveless white dress.

Her name was Rose Michaels.

John lifted Rose’s face by her chin and fell into her wide green eyes. He kissed her lips and told her how beautiful she looked, then watched her say thank you with a grin.

John grabbed the gift off the bar’s counter and handed it to his wife. “Happy anniversary, baby.”

“Aw, you did remember,” she teased.

“Just open it.” John took a sip from his drink.

From inside the bag, Rose pulled out a small stuffed elephant. Its ears were large and floppy, and on the inside of one, Rose’s name was stitched in cursive lettering.

“What a cutie,” Rose exclaimed while rubbing the animal against her cheek. Then she noticed a zipper on the elephant’s back with something inside. Rose unzipped the pouch to find two folded up pieces of paper. She unfolded them and saw that they were plane tickets.

“Oh my god.” Rose slapped John on the arm. “Hawaii?”

“We leave tomorrow morning.”

“This is too much.”

“Too much? Sweetheart, this isn’t just another anniversary—this is the big ten! That’s ten years of you putting up with my shit without a single homicide charge. All the mornings I used all the hot water, all the date nights I missed when I had to work… For you, nothing is too much.”

“I love you. Do you know that? And as for your present… well you’ll just have to wait a tad bit longer,” she said and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Right now, momma needs a drink.”

Rose ordered a Martini. After drinking it, the bartender asked her if she’d like another.

“One’s enough. Thanks.” Then she turned to John. “Okay, I need you to hurry and finish that,” she said, looking to the Jack left in his glass.

“Why’s that?”

“Oh, let’s not waste time asking questions, Mr. Officer-man. The night’s still young, isn’t it? Let’s go live a little.”

John finished his drink and tossed a few crumpled-up bills onto the bar and followed his wife outside. Rose hurried down the sidewalk, tugging John along behind her by the hand. As John followed, he caught the sweet vanilla scent that trailed from her. They continued East down Madison, crossed North 2nd Street, then North 4th, and stopped in front of a nightclub called The Night Owl.

“Oh, look,” John said, unamused. “A nightclub.”

“Now, I know these places aren’t your favorite, but—”

John stopped her. “I’d love to,” he said.

John was walking toward the back of the line when rose pulled him in the other direction. She walked up to one of the bouncers at the front and began saying something. People standing outside the club were loud and kept John from being able to hear. After flipping through a couple of papers on a clipboard, the bouncer let them in.

“What the hell just happened?” John asked once they were inside.

Ignoring the question, Rose grabbed a table by the railing just off the dance floor then pulled out her phone and checked the time. “Hey, will you order us some drinks if a waiter comes by?” she asked John. “I have to run to the bathroom real quick.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess. What do you want?”

“Surprise me,” she said with a shrug before darting away.

John stood at the table watching the crowd on the dance floor bounce in synchronicity to the pounding bass of the music. After a brief moment, he saw Rose’s rose gold hair and white dress squeeze through the crowd. Her smile stretched ear to ear as she grabbed John’s hand and pulled him onto the dance floor.

“What’s going on?” he asked, shouting through the music.

“You’ll see,” Rose responded.

Suddenly, the music turned down low.

“Hey, how’s everybody doin’?” The D.J. said through the microphone.

All at once, the whole crowd responded with a single cheer.

“That’s what I like to hear. So, we’re going to do things a little different tonight. In the crowd right now, we have a couple celebrating a very special moment in their lives. Tonight is their 10th anniversary. That’s right, let’s make some noise for Rose and John, everybody.”

A spotlight fell upon the two as claps and woo-hoo’s filled the club.

“Fantastic,” the D.J. continued. “Now, for their special night, Rose has requested I play a song that she’d like to dedicate to her husband. So, everybody grab somebody, get on the dance floor, and get close. Happy anniversary you two.”

‘Tiny Dancer,’ by Elton John began playing.

“Our wedding song,” John said. He cupped Rose’s face in his hands. “You planned this?”

Rose nodded. Then she took a deep breath as if to calm herself. “You ready for the rest of your present? Close your eyes.”

While John’s eyes closed, Rose let hers freely roam over his face, all the features she adored: the freckle over his left brow, the scar on his chin, the salt and pepper of his beard. Her hand dug through her purse. Then she stopped.

“Whenever you’re ready,” John said, his eyes still closed.

“Do you hear that?” Rose listened. “Sounds like fireworks.”

“I swear, if you’ve also had someone set off fireworks…”

Then John heard it too. His eyes opened to a realization. Those distant pops, such a familiar sound. They weren’t fireworks, though. As they continued, what was happening became clear, and the most horrible feeling imaginable fell upon John.

From beneath the music, a roar of screams erupted, beginning first outside the club. Then the double doors at the front opened. A man dressed in full black and a ski mask stood at the front entrance. In his arms was an AR. In that brief moment, John’s thoughts ran faster than his legs ever could as time reached a standstill.

John pushed his wife behind him just as the masked man raised the gun and began firing into the crowd. People fell as the music stopped. Everybody ran every which way, bumping into some and trampling a few. Most in the dense crowd darted to the side door, but it had been locked from the outside.

John scrambled for the phone in his pocket and called 911. “This is Detective Jonathan Michaels with Memphis Police; I need backup at The Night Owl Nightclub on 4th and Madison,” Jonathan said under the sounds of rapid shots. “There’s a shooting in progress. One assailant, multiple civilians down. I repeat: a shooting at The Night Owl, send backup.”

John drew his gun. With Rose’s hand in his, he pulled her to the side. “Everybody get down!” he shouted. But his voice was lost in the screams. He raised his gun. People were scurrying. There wasn’t a clear shot. Then the crowd parted just enough. John’s finger tightened around the trigger… but he froze. The shot was gone.

Just then the shooter took aim in John’s direction, and fired.

John growled in pain as a bullet pierced through his bicep. He raised the gun again, aimed, and took the shot he had. PAH! The bullet hit the gunman center mass. He lost balance, stumbled—but the bullet didn’t make it through the Kevlar. The gunman resumed aim just as John fired once more, this time shooting the gunman in the head.

John turned around and, to his horror, saw Rose on the ground. A single bullet had torn through her chest. Her blood covered the front of her white dress, staining it red.

“No, no, no, no…” John pleaded as he hurried to Rose’s side. He took a plastic card from his pocket, placed it over the wound in Rose’s chest and applied pressure. Beneath his hand he felt the rapid but faint beat of Rose’s heart.

“John.” Her voice quivered as she struggled to speak through the pain.

John held her hand tight. “I’m here.”

Over the sound of cries that filled the club, sirens could be heard just outside. Beside where Rose laid, her purse had spilled. There on the ground, John noticed a pregnancy test. With his bloodied fingers, he picked it up and saw two lines. His vision blurred as a tear trickled down his cheek. He looked to Rose.

She fought her lips into a smile. “Happy anniversary,” she managed.

“You’re going to be okay.” He kissed her head. “You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

Amongst the scattered things that fell from Rose’s purse, John also noticed a folded piece of paper. On one side of the paper, the word boy’s was written. On the other side, it said girl’s. It was a list of names. The first name written under the boy’s side was Wesley.

Rose tried looking down at where she’d been hit, but John stopped her. “Is it bad?” she asked.

John tried his hardest to look as nonchalant as he could. He shook his head and said, “No. No, it’s not bad,” hoping he could even fool himself.

Rose shivered. Her face, her lips turned pale. “I’m cold. So… so cold.”

Swat flooded into the club. John quickly stood and identified himself, then had an officer fetch a medic for Rose. Then, John realized something. He realized the hand he gripped no longer gripped his. And beneath his hand where he’d once felt the beat of Rose’s heart, he felt an emptiness.

“Rose?” John lifted her head and stroked the hair from her face. “Rose. Rose!”

But the light in Rose’s eyes had fallen dark, and her body, in that dress of red, had fallen limp. Her unblinking eyes, no longer staring into John, stared straight through him. John turned back to the swat and ambulance personnel with terror in his face, shouting as loud as he could for somebody to hurry—but no one was there. The frantic crowd whose screams and cries had just flooded the club were also gone. The chaos, the bodies on the floor, the masked gunman… Everything was gone. Instead, all John saw were the white walls of a claustrophobic room. When he looked back to Rose, he instead saw a woman in her 50’s with dark curly hair. She was dressed in scrubs and wore a name tag that read, Louise Schean, LPN. Across the top was, Greenoaks Hospital, Behavioral.

“What—what’s happening?” John asked, his voice stricken with panic. But as he continued to look, and as his thoughts continued to settle like the pounding in his chest, John became aware of just what was happening. Looking down at his clothes, John saw he was wearing a white t-shirt, gray sweatpants, socks, and a pair of flip flops. Around his wrist was a plastic band that had his name, date of birth, and Patient 313 on it.

“He’s coming out of it,” said the nurse.

John was trying to move when he felt the blood-cutting grip of the four hands that kept him restrained. On either side of him stood two bulky techs in green scrubs, holding John by his arms.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the nurse said as she held up her open palms. “John. You’re fine. Remember the grounding techniques you practiced with Dr. Davidson. Slow, deep breaths. Think about where you are, what you see, hear…”

For a moment, John stopped resisting as his body relaxed. He let out a long, slow breath and let the nurse guide him through the exercise. But as his eyes closed, the faces of those he couldn’t save—the faces of those who’d died that night at the club—stared at him from the backs of his eyelids.

John began jerking and thrusting his arms, trying to pry himself from the death grips of the technician’s. He twisted and grunted, pushed and heaved… but he couldn’t get free. The nurse drew a syringe from her front pocket and bit off the cap as she used her other hand to push up John’s sleeve. She then stuck the needle into his arm and pushed in on the plunger with her thumb.

The last thing John saw, just before those faces on the backs of his eyelids, was a picture of Rose taped to the brick wall beside his bed.

Honestly, this was one of those stories I wrote but didn’t know what to do with.

It’s hard to believe it’s almost been a month and a half since I last wrote anything on this blog because it seems like it’s been longer. Anyway, I’m alive. Been doing a lot of traveling these last couple months. On the west coast just outside of LA right now. Yep.

Talk soon, (maybe)

Jordan

Dear Love – A Poem

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Dear Love,

A young boy, I was

watching love on a silver screen

dreaming one day I’d grow up

You and I would meet

While puddles formed on the concrete

we’d connect beneath a streetlight

But the thought was too much for me

so I left that night

Spanning from lonely broken streets

to monster-filled seas

Everybody just said

“Eventually.”

And I wanted to give up

but they said you were something I’d need

Like the light of day

or the air I breathe

Yes, I’ve been searching

far and wide

in coffee shops

and online dating sites

I even thought

we’d met a couple times

Then I realized

I was colorblind

What I thought was red

was an empty black

Empty like my bed

Vulnerable like my back

Because hate will sometimes

wear you like a disguise

Mimic your every move

whisper the most perfect of lies

Still, I’ve persisted

running on feet gone raw

from a life of beating pavement

only to find nothing at all

And my body has crumbled, weak

My heart, empty, like my sheets

I’m tired of searching for something

I’ve only seen in my dreams

Like a kid, I must admit

I don’t believe you exist

Like the Easter bunny

or good ol’ Saint Nick

A young boy, I was

watching love on a silver screen

dreaming one day I’d grow up

You and I would meet

“Eventually.”

Thank you for reading! I hope everybody has a great weekend

Poem: How it feels to be Mr. Nobody (Do You See Me Now?)

[image error]

How it feels to be

a lifeless body in the sea

the voice nobody hears

the face nobody sees

He was at the Comic Con, and was finally about to receive

his chance to meet the one, the only, Stan Lee

Then the moment came. The boy was introduced to the man

He stood so nervous as he held out his hand

His idol turned, he hit the boy with a glance

then he turned right back, and not a word was said

The boy stumbled off, feeling far less than small

with this feeling inside, wishing he were a neutron bomb.

He was beginning eighth grade, and it was the very first day

The boy had moved to the state from a place so far away

He sat up front, and never said much

but had promised his mom, he’d find a way to have fun

The teacher called out to the room, told everyone to get in groups

The boy sat timid, unable to make a move

And nobody saw. Nobody said anything at all.

Mr. Nobody sat, wishing he were a neutron bomb

Mr. Nobody–he swore that ONE day

he’d grow to have a name, he’d grow to have a face

He’d grow to be somebody, recognized and great

even if he had to give

everything

It was another day, when the boy came to class late.

Students were in groups, laughing away

The teacher sat with papers, scribbling down grades

Nobody knew of the tragedy, about to take place

He stepped up to the front, a twisting feeling in his gut

Nobody even noticed, till he pulled out a gun

Everybody went stiff, and frigid like the winter’s wind.

The boy looked up, and saw his classmates staring at him

Nobody made a sound, as the boy opened his mouth

“Do you see me?” he asked. “Do you see me now?”

Then he turned the gun around, and put the barrel into his mouth

Some cried, some shrieked; some especially loud

The teacher stood. “No!” she began to shout.

Just then, the room was filled, with a deafening POW!

Time froze as silence, began to drown them all

Mr. Nobody was finally heard, like a neutron bomb

How it feels to be

a lifeless body in the sea

the voice nobody hears

the face nobody sees

Thank you, indeed

so much for the read

Signed, yours truly,

-Mr. Nobody

Checkout my YouTube!

 

Why I Choose to Live in my Car

I sat down and very carefully planned out how I was going to write a post explaining why I’m living in my car. Then I wrote 3/4 of it, stopped, said, “What the fuck,” and scrapped it. For me, it seems there are some posts that should be strategically planned, and then some that should be written on impulse. In the heat of the moment. Free form. Emotions and thoughts flowing like an open faucet.

This is one of those types of posts.

So, in case you couldn’t tell from the title, I’m currently living in my car; specifically, my Jeep Patriot. Not exactly the most spacious vehicle, but compared to my Kia Spectra, it’s practically a mansion. And, I know–some of you may gasp, some may sit in wonder, some may even be envious. Most, though, probably scrunch their face and say, “Why?”

In this post, I’ll be explaining the three main reasons behind why I started living in my car.

Photo by Jordan Antonacci 2019



Reasons Why



1

So, as I sit here scribbling these thoughts down in this rather busy Starbucks in West Knoxville, I look back and can see it’s almost as if every (major) choice I’ve made in life has lead to me making this decision. Ever since my early years, I’d always been obsessed with camping and adventures. When I used to spend the night at my grandma’s, I’d bring a tent and set it up in the living room of her tiny 350-square-foot apartment. I even had one of those electric s’mores machines. God, how she must’ve hated that.

I remember this one time in particular: my stepdad was about to move us from TN to TX, and I just wasn’t having it. I was 12, and had just gotten into my first “real” relationship with this beautiful girl–Kayla, was her name. So, what did I do? My friends and I made a plan to sneak out one night and runaway. We’d found this long country road surrounded by acres of farms and decided that was it. I said I’d runaway, start a new life, and live off-the-grid for the remainder of my days. The thought was so exciting. Intoxicating. We did end up sneaking out and at least starting down the road… until my friend turned on his phone, heard a message from my dad and got spooked.

And even though I never ran away (except for half a day), I’ll never forget the doorway that opened as I stood on that desolate road in the middle of nowhere, staring down it and wondering where it lead to.

2

You know that feeling of restlessness? That feeling that’s like an itch you can’t scratch, fueling you with an overwhelming urge to get up and go–somewhere, anywhere–but you don’t know where? My mother told me I first started walking when I was only 8 months. Apparently, it’s usually the younger siblings who learn to walk so early when they’re trying to keep up with the older siblings. I’m the oldest. I like to believe my need to get up and go was present even at such a young age.

After I moved out of my parent’s at 18 and started living on my own, I quickly developed a reputation as being someone who can’t sit the f#@k still. My friend once told me I “moved more than someone in the mob.” And, it was true. I had developed this habit of moving somewhere, loving it for a couple of weeks (months, if I was lucky), then growing bored with it and moving again as soon as I could. It was during this time when I started traveling a LOT, sometimes making 13-hour road trips for only a night just to get away. I just always felt like I was looking for something, you know? A place where I could feel comfortable and like I actually belonged.

There’s this word I discovered sometime at the beginning of this year–a Welsh word I happened upon while doing research for my other blog. The word–or, concept–is Hireath. While the word doesn’t have an exact definition, in general terms, it means, “A homesickness for a home which does not exist.” I immediately fell in love. I thought back over my whole adult life: how I was constantly moving (sometimes just down the street), how I was constantly breaking leases, changing jobs, constantly growing bored and restless, and how the only time I ever felt alive was when I was on the road with the world at my feet. A journey beneath me, and infinite unknowns ahead.

A poem called I wrote called, “The Wanderer:” https://mrhushhush.com/2019/05/12/poem-the-wanderer/

[image error]Photo by Jordan Antonacci 2019



3

As far as I can remember, I’ve never understood society. It’s always felt like a box. Like a straight jacket. It’s a paved road that we’re marched along, taught never to stray from or we’ll sink. I’ve always hated it. I’ve always hated being told what I can and can’t do, and I’ve hated the mediocre expectations. The feeling of being an enslaved robot. When I was 12, I began my rebellious teenager phase (in case you couldn’t tell by my little story above), and promised myself I’d never live a life like everyone else. Not because I wanted to stand out, but because I refused to grow and resent every waking moment from work to alimony payments.

The Solution

I’m positive enough we all have those moments where we look around at our lives and wonder what we’re doing with the little time we have. Toward the end of the summer in 2017, one of those moments hit me harder than ever; I suddenly realized I was trapped in the life I had always promised myself I’d never live. I was tied down by a 9-5, an apartment lease, a growing pile of bills, and even my then-girlfriend who only made things much worse.

In a way, I felt like I’d hit a dead end. I was extremely depressed and genuinely didn’t know what to do with my life. So, after minimal consideration, I broke up with my girlfriend, quit my job, broke my lease, sold everything I had, and, yes, started living in my car. Some may call it a temporary moment of insanity. Me? I call it an early-onset midlife crisis.

Just like that, I cut the ties and freed myself from everything that weighed me down. Just like that, I stepped off the beaten path and made my own. Closed one chapter and opened the next. I’ll never be able to explain how freeing it felt to make that leap. But maybe–just maybe–you’ll be able to experience that freedom with me.

[image error]Photo by Jordan Antonacci 2019

If you made it this far in the post, then you’re at the end, and I’d like to thank you for taking the time to read. There will definitely be many more to come, so long as the journeys continue–which, with me, they always will.

Trying to cure loneliness only makes it worse

It’s stuff like this which really makes me wonder if I genuinely may be cursed.

If you’ve been following this blog for a good minute, then you may or may not have a decent understanding of what this blog, MrHushHush, is all about. Truthfully, you probably don’t, and that’s perfectly fine, because at times, even I–the blog’s creator–find myself pondering its purpose. Then I think back to that scorching and quiet summer of 2017 in Texas, and remember why I created MrHushHush in the first place:

to find a connection.

[image error]Photo by daffa rayhan zein on Pexels.com

So me and loneliness go way back. Not like friends from high school, but more like Siamese twins. Really, it’s the only relationship I’ve ever been able to hold.

Ahem…

I’ve always had a bit of an issue with the whole communicate and make friends thing everyone seems to love participating in so much. When I was a little, I’d have to stay at my grandma’s a lot while my mom worked, and my grandma–God rest her soul–was extremely agoraphobic. To her, the world was a great big scary place full of scary things, and it was meant to be avoided at all times. She never left her tiny one-bedroom apartment and wouldn’t let me either. Any time I tried hanging out with the other kids in the complex, she’d chase me with a switch (something long and thin used to spank grandchildren), threatening to call the police till I finally went and sat either in front of the TV or in the closet with my toys. (She did this out of love, though).

From there, whenever my mom moved us, she’d have to drag me through the neighborhood and introduce me to kids she didn’t even know. I don’t know if I’d grown accustomed to isolation or what, but I didn’t like talking with people. I was just always that kid people said was “quieter than a mouse.” Even today, I still scare people when I walk up behind them.

Flash forward some years…

When I was 18, my family moved from TX to CA while I stayed in TX for work. We had originally moved to TX from TN, which was where the other half of my family was–so when my mom and brothers moved, I was pretty alone. During those first few years of being on my own, loneliness was the only one who’d pay me any visits. The only one who’d call just to let me know it was there. Constantly. And I was so alone at the time, I actually welcomed its presence. (I actually made a post about this time called, “Don’t you get lonely?”)

But when your hands handle rough surfaces long enough, they develop calluses. After a while, I became accustomed to constantly being alone, like how your body will get used to cold temperatures after enough time of exposure.

Before I knew it, I was saying, “I like being alone.” Still do. And I’m being genuine when I say that, overall, I prefer being by myself. Being alone doesn’t mean I’m lonely. Nowadays I’m rarely lonely, no matter how alone I actually am. Don’t get me wrong, though–I’m not saying I never get lonely, because I do. Humans are a naturally social species and we all crave some form of acceptance, so, not much I can do about that. Fucking DNA.

“Here, the fallen and lonely cry out

Will you fix me up? Will you show me hope?

The end of the day, and we’re helpless

Can you keep me close? Can you love me most?”

-Someone to Stay, Vancouver Sleep Clinic

Loneliness definitely still pops up on my caller ID from time to time–similar to a resentful ex. I feel like it’s this deep and dark sink hole that randomly opens up wherever I am (again, the ex thing). It can be easy to slip into; particularly, if it’s raining out. Every so often, I’ll find myself walking along the edge of that vast abyss, and on occasion, yes, I’ll slip and get swallowed up by that darkness. Climbing out isn’t difficult–it just may take some time depending on how hard it’s raining.

Where I typically go wrong is instead of just climbing out and walking away, I’ll sometimes try to fill that hole and get rid of the loneliness altogether. I can never tell what goes wrong exactly–whether I fall back into that same hole or just find a way to dig myself into a new one–but trying to fill it always leaves me worse off than I initially was. You think I’d learn.

“The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results.”

I kick my feet into my shoes, grab my keys, and with a sigh, leave the apartment. I walk down the street to the local outdoor shopping center, or maybe I hit up the coffee shop–wherever there’s an unnecessary abundance of people. But as I walk amongst the crowd, instead of relieving myself of the feeling of disconnect, all I notice are the groups of laughter; all the hands being held, the lips being locked. Even as I engage in the superficial “Hi, how are you?” I can’t help but realize that I’m the only one in the crowd who’s alone.

Let’s say I finally go home, deeper in the hole than when I left. I know it’s best to go back to writing, but instead, I pull out my phone and hop on Bumble–that lame ass dating site. When I open the app I see that I have a few connections. I don’t go crazy at see that. At the risk of sounding completely cocky, I actually get quite a few connections; it’s what comes next that digs the hole deeper: talking. Why? Because these girls always want this interaction to be the beginning of a relationship and I suck at communicating, remember? I don’t have the energy nor the interest, but still, I persist. The conversation lasts a few back and forth’s before I finally close the app.

Then, finally, so deep in the hole I can’t even see the surface, I go back to writing.

[image error]Photo by Gilbert Cayamo on Pexels.com

It seems like whenever I try to forge a new relationship with someone to fill that hole, it’s a process that feels forced. Like it’s something I have to do as opposed to something I actually want. It’s more of a primal urge, or an instinct. A burden, really. Makes me feel more like an alien trying to act human till I become one. And though relationships aren’t something I actually want, they’re something I want to want. Confusing at all? Yeah.

“I’m holding on

to so much more than I can carry

I keep dragging around what’s bringing me down

If I just let go I’d be set free

Why is everything so heavy?”

-Heavy, Linkin Park

Every time I try to reach out, I’m just reminded of all my flaws. I’m reminded of why I never could in the first place, of why all my previous attempts failed… I’m reminded of my own insecurities and of how I’ll never be able to be who I want to be.

This thing I do where I try to fill my loneliness–it’s but a pointless and vicious, unrelenting fucking cycle that I’m done going around. I only end up digging myself into another, deeper hole. Every time. So now, instead of trying to fill that hole, I simply pull myself from it’s muddy depths and walk away.

So now… instead of stuffing the bio section on my dating profiles with mind-numbingly pointless information about myself, I make it known that I’m only looking for something casual. Something that won’t dig me deeper. Something superficial. Something that isn’t real.

Relationships suck.

 

Hey guys! I updated my About Me page recently if you’d like to read it. I’ve had quite a few life changes this year and the page fills you in on a few (in case you’ve just been dying to know).

Also, I’m officially traveling while living out of my DIY suv camper

Poem: Wishlist

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I wish that I

was larger than life

A heavenly Hell

The ocean and sky combined

I wish that I

could be the hand you hold

when you shiver in the cold

When you’re lost and alone

How I wish

I could truly be free

A wave in the sea

A breeze through the trees

I wish I was

the place you called home

More than just

an unknown on your phone

I wish for beauty

if only then you could see me

The sound of I love you

A heavenly symphony

And yes, I wish

you’d read this wishlist

Only if you

could somehow exist

“I wish I was an alien

at home behind the sun

I wish I was the souvenir

you kept your house key on”

-“Wishlist,” Pearl Jam

Hey peoples! So, for the last couple weeks, I’ve actually been doing a lot of traveling while living out of my diy suv-camper. Yep. I’ve made a blog and Instagram dedicated to the lifestyle and my travels. The blog doesn’t have any content yet but I’m working on it

Poem: Can’t Move On

[image error]Photo by Egor Kamelev on Pexels.com

It’s been

6 years

since you’ve

been gone

yet the pain

still feels

like it happened today

Which I guess

is strange

coz they say

“Time heals

all wounds”

Yet as I write

this down

there’s bloody prints

on the keyboard

Maybe because

I can’t stop

cutting myself

open

Because the pain

is the only thing

keeping you

close

when you’re no longer

here

at all

It’s been

a few years

since you’ve

been gone

and no matter where

I run

I can’t

move on

 

Hi

Poem – Go Insane

[image error]Photo by Gilbert Cayamo on Pexels.com

I said

“Without you,

I’m lost.

And I don’t know

where to go.”

She grinned

as she turned

her back

and said

“Go insane.”

Have a good Sunday