Shame

Shame… Fuck… What’s shame? I mean I know what shame is, I know you know what it is and if you can’t put it into words, you’re gonna run for the nearest Webster’s. But let’s be deep, man, let’s go all out. Let’s  talk about shame and what it really is. For me? I don’t know, there are so many levels of shame, you know? I mean, it can be shame from yourself, you know: you’re staring at your goldfish and your mind starts to wander, it wanders, you wonder, you can’t help it: what would it feel like to get a blow job from a big gold fish? You know? That perfect ‘O’ mouth, no teeth… we’ve all thought about it. Then our brain goes ‘wait, whaaaat?’ and you look down in shame, because you’re one sick motherfucker, you know.

Or, I don’t know, your brother catches you jerking off your dog. Your brother’s a bit disturbed, I mean therapy is a given at this point. Lying down on the couch, gripping tissues, asking ‘Why? Why?’ all the time. The dog was happy, if a bit confused. But generally happy. Then again it kind of always was sporting a big goofy grin. But, no: I’m sure he was happy. And possibly frustrated. Because, well, when you brother walked in on your little canine debauchery, you stopped. So that’s one frustrated retriever, you know? And the shame? The shame you felt as you made eye contact with your brother? That shit ran deep. You were deeply ashamed, because you’re one twisted twat.

But you get over that, you say it’s youth’s folly and you move on, somehow. The shame I’m talking about here is the kind that sticks with you like body odor on Easter Sunday. You know: the sun’s blazing, you’re wearing a suit, you ran out of deodorant the day before and you were too busy twiddling your woman’s vag to go out and get some more. So now you feel sweat pooling into your shoes and a fucking creek is forming between your shoulder blades and a lake is forming in your ass crack. And you smell, man, you smell worse than a pile of corpse. Anyway, what was I saying? Yes… The shame that sticks with you…

For example, you start working somewhere new and there’s this girl just sitting there. And your heart skips a beat, you know? She’s just so… So incredible. You know? Then she looks up and smiles at you and you think you might pass out, you have to remind yourself to breathe. It might be love at first sight, I don’t know, or maybe it’s just asthma or all those years of pepperoni pizzas finally catching up with you and this is it: your heart attack is upon you. But no, you’re alive, you feel a bit dizzy and you smile back and you don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything. You grin like a retriever. And this goes on and on. You get nervous around her, you can’t talk to her, but you want to, but you don’t know what to say, so you don’t because you can’t. But you should, you know you should. But you just don’t. Idiot. So, one day she casually mentions that she hates coffee.

Now… Coffee’s your life. I mean you live for coffee. If they made coffee suppositories, you’d shove them in your ass five at a time, that’s how much you love coffee. If you had to wake up and your coffee machine was broken, you’d just run into the bathroom and slash open your wrists, because without coffee: what’s the point, you know? You love coffee so much that you sometimes think  about chewing on used coffee filters and you think that if you commercialized a candy called ‘Used Filter,’ you’d be a millionaire. And if you went bust, you wouldn’t give a shit anyway because then you’d have a gazillion of those candies just for you. So, yeah: you love coffee. More than sex, more than shitting, more than your PS3. If anybody told you: ‘Yeah, I’m not a big fan of coffee,’ you’d go nuts. They’re not saying they don’t like it, just that they don’t love it. If anyone told you this, you’d grab the nearest blunt object and bash their brains in, because fuck them really. ’You don’t like coffee? Oh, no? How do you like having your brain leak down your forehead, you stupid cunt?!’

So, okay: you feel strongly about coffee. And this girl that makes you dizzy tells somebody else she hates coffee. So you vouch right then and there that you’ll stop drinking coffee. And you do. And she doesn’t know it, and even if she did how would she understand how much you love coffee anyway? But that’s okay, you did it for her. Because, well… She’s worth it. So worth it that you still don’t talk to her.

But one day… Yeah, we’re getting to the shame part, hold your horses… One day you’re home and you’re a bit drunk because you finally opened that bottle of vodka somebody gave you for your last birthday and you’re listening to sad-shit music. Not gay music, just sad. You know the kind. I’m not talking Lilith Fair, here. I’m not talking about Sondheim or whatever. But good sad music. Tindersticks, maybe, or even Antony and the Johnsons. Yeah, so they’re gay, that’s not the point. The point is: you’re drunk, listening to music. And alone. And your mind drifts to Her, that creature who probably doesn’t even know your name. But you got her email because some asshole co-worker likes to forward shit to everyone. The fuck sent you a video of a cat rollerblading or something like that and, at first, you’d decided that, okay: tomorrow I’m bringing a shotgun to work and this asshole is going down. But then in the ‘To:’ line in that email, you noticed Her name. Her email. This sent an electric charge in your brain and your feet felt tingly for a second. It was like finding the Holy Grail. You didn’t know why, you didn’t know what you’d do with it. But it felt important to have it. And to see her name on your screen. So, you had her email. Thanks to the forwarding douche. God bless this fucking douche.

So, you’re home and, hey: you’re so drunk it feels like a good idea to email her. So you do. Deep down, whatever’s left of your reason is on its knees begging you to reconsider. I mean at this point your reason is John Turturro in the woods in ‘Miller’s Crossing.’ But you’re Gabriel Byrne, you go ‘fuck it!’ and you start typing. And you pour your heart out. Not too dramatically, but honestly, if a bit drunkenly. But not so drunkenly that you forget to read it a few times, correcting the grammar and punctuation and what have you. And before your reason turns itself into the shark from ‘Jaws’ and snaps at you, you click ‘Send.’ Then you light up a smoke, fart, and pour yourself another drink.

In the morning, hey: guess what?! Shame. Not shame because you got drunk and wrote her, no. You did what you had to do. But shame for feeling this way about a girl who doesn’t know who the fuck you are. Shame for feeling like a teenager. Shame for acting like a pimply prick. I mean, okay, you think about her all the time. You don’t even think dirty filthy thoughts, but nice ones: looking at her, listening to her, having dinner with her, making her laugh. You can’t imagine sleeping with her, because you know she would never do that with you. And you know you could never have such a girl. But being her friend, maybe make her fall in love with you, maybe. Why not? Stranger things have happened. And one day, maybe, she’ll take your hand in hers and then you’ll know you could die happy. You can’t even imagine kissing her, because if you do, you might pass out.

That’s shame, buddy. You’re a thirty-something guy fantasizing about a younger girl. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like she’s 12, no: it’s not that kind of shame. I mean, she’s not that much younger. But she is younger. And beautiful, with that smile of hers, and those eyes and the long flowing hair, and… Yeah, anyway. Whatever. You feel shame for not talking to her, shame for feeling that way about her. Shame for being a coward. Shame for being a fool.

And then, you know what? She never replies to your email. Is it because she didn’t read it? Is it because she doesn’t know who you are? Is it because you didn’t actually send it? Is it because you freaked her out? You’ll never know. Because you stop going to work, you never see her again. Instead you sit in dark bars, get drunk and talk about her to people you barely know.

One day, three months after that email, you actually write her another email, apologizing for having written to her. And when you click ‘Send,’ the shame you feel is so overwhelming you look at your heater and imagine yourself strapping a belt around the hot pipe, putting your head in that leathery noose, emptying the vodka while taking a few dozen sleeping pills and going to sleep, strangled by Morpheus.

No, not ‘The Matrix’ guy.

Fuck you, man, you asked me about shame, so I’m telling you. What? You didn’t ask me? Well, fuck you anyway. Buy me another drink and I’ll tell you about sorrow.