This is work for august chagrin, a journal entry by Randy Reardon (the narrator), after he has left the hospital in Waco and is trying to figure out what to do next, camping out in a motel room, watching lots of TV. This is around the time of the Branch Davidian/FBI conflict, so that's all he's finding on television...
I'm in prison. It's like A Clockwork Orange in here, nothing but bad news, cult shit, every channel, or Places In The Heart on the only movie channel. King-size bed, tasteful striped bedspread, tan berber carpet, credenza, mirror, TV, bedside lights attached to the walls over wood panel nightstands, Motel 6 info folder, notepad, personalized ballpoint pen, alarm clock, telephone with a big red button to be lit up if I get a message, phone book, and yep, a Gideon's Bible; something to thumb through as I await execution.
No, this isn't anything like a prison. I have plastic wrapped plastic cups with Motel 6 logos on them! I have an ice bucket, a faux marble sink and counter, a toilet, a shower-tub, clean white towels and washcloths, complementary shampoo, conditioner, lotion, and two kinds of bar soap: one for the hands, one for the body. I've never been in a prison, but I know the worst motel is better than the best prison. There's a table by the window, two chairs, and on the other side of that curtain a swimming pool, cool blue and glimmering around the clock. But I feel trapped, like I'm locked in a cage, four white walls and a popcorn ceiling, overhead light.
I know. I could turn off the TV. I could walk out the door, walk the streets, go out for a drink. I could check out and go somewhere else. But where? A bus ride to San Francisco is out of the question. My leg would kill me. If I get more spots, people might be able to see them, people would stare at me.
People stare at me anyway. I spend too much time in front of the mirror, I know what I look like. I look like shit. I look sick. I am sick. Plenty of people leave San Francisco looking like this, but I don't know if anybody goes to San Francisco looking like this. Maybe they won't let me in. Maybe they only let you die there if you got sick there.
I'm gonna be in a little white box soon. Who will come get me? My big sister Rona won't. Ha!
Nedra won't.
Brenda won't, and I wouldn't want her to.
Anita would, but I wouldn't want her to either, but for different reasons. Who would? I don't know anybody.
Would august? Does he really still love me like he said he always would? Not like a lover. Of course not. I wouldn't expect that. I wouldn't want that. I can't imagine what a pain in the ass it would be to have a boyfriend right now, hovering over me, pushing pills down my throat four times a day, fretting over me, worrying -- give me a break!
I guess that's why I think of the women in my life. I'm like David Koresh. I've surrounded myself with women. I don't want to fuck them! But it seems like the best companions I've had have been women, or girls. No, scratch that. The only companions I've ever had have been women or girls. I don't understand men. I don't have to understand females, and so they've always been easier to take.
Rich doesn't count. Rich was something different. Rich came before anything else, emotion-wise. I'd already had females in my life -- Mona, Rona, Brenda -- who were already doing their damage to my emotion well-being. But I had no idea. Not until after the affair with Rich.
Affair! That's a funny way to put it. How old was I? Seventh grade. But Rich did change everything. I know he didn't care anything about me. He didn't expect anything of me except that I be willing. And I was. Even when he hurt my feelings or treated me like shit, I was willing. Even after he stopped needing me, I still needed him and I was still willing. Even after he died, I was still willing.
And I found him in restrooms and bookstores and porn theaters. I let him know I was willing, and he gave it to me. And he gave IT to me. And I willingly took it.
David Koresh is like a savior to these people trapped in this building, this big house, this Compound. He's the Second Coming. If he looked anything like Rich White, I would be right there. I would be knocking on the door. I would be excusing myself past the ATF soldiers and knocking on the front door saying, "David, let me in! Savior!"
So I can understand how these people, these "surprisingly intelligent" people could fall for the likes of him. If he looked like Salvation to me, I would be right there, doing whatever he told me to do, drinking the Kool-Aid, having his babies, I would be willing.
He's trapped there and I'm trapped here, not far away. He doesn't know what to do next and neither do I. He is surrounded by all the people in the world who love him (except his grandmother), but he is all alone. I am just alone.
What are my options?
What are my options?
What are my options? What are my options? What are my options?
I'm in prison. It's like A Clockwork Orange in here, nothing but bad news, cult shit, every channel, or Places In The Heart on the only movie channel. King-size bed, tasteful striped bedspread, tan berber carpet, credenza, mirror, TV, bedside lights attached to the walls over wood panel nightstands, Motel 6 info folder, notepad, personalized ballpoint pen, alarm clock, telephone with a big red button to be lit up if I get a message, phone book, and yep, a Gideon's Bible; something to thumb through as I await execution.No, this isn't anything like a prison. I have plastic wrapped plastic cups with Motel 6 logos on them! I have an ice bucket, a faux marble sink and counter, a toilet, a shower-tub, clean white towels and washcloths, complementary shampoo, conditioner, lotion, and two kinds of bar soap: one for the hands, one for the body. I've never been in a prison, but I know the worst motel is better than the best prison. There's a table by the window, two chairs, and on the other side of that curtain a swimming pool, cool blue and glimmering around the clock. But I feel trapped, like I'm locked in a cage, four white walls and a popcorn ceiling, overhead light.
I know. I could turn off the TV. I could walk out the door, walk the streets, go out for a drink. I could check out and go somewhere else. But where? A bus ride to San Francisco is out of the question. My leg would kill me. If I get more spots, people might be able to see them, people would stare at me.
People stare at me anyway. I spend too much time in front of the mirror, I know what I look like. I look like shit. I look sick. I am sick. Plenty of people leave San Francisco looking like this, but I don't know if anybody goes to San Francisco looking like this. Maybe they won't let me in. Maybe they only let you die there if you got sick there.
I'm gonna be in a little white box soon. Who will come get me? My big sister Rona won't. Ha!
Nedra won't.
Brenda won't, and I wouldn't want her to.
Anita would, but I wouldn't want her to either, but for different reasons. Who would? I don't know anybody.
Would august? Does he really still love me like he said he always would? Not like a lover. Of course not. I wouldn't expect that. I wouldn't want that. I can't imagine what a pain in the ass it would be to have a boyfriend right now, hovering over me, pushing pills down my throat four times a day, fretting over me, worrying -- give me a break!
I guess that's why I think of the women in my life. I'm like David Koresh. I've surrounded myself with women. I don't want to fuck them! But it seems like the best companions I've had have been women, or girls. No, scratch that. The only companions I've ever had have been women or girls. I don't understand men. I don't have to understand females, and so they've always been easier to take.
Rich doesn't count. Rich was something different. Rich came before anything else, emotion-wise. I'd already had females in my life -- Mona, Rona, Brenda -- who were already doing their damage to my emotion well-being. But I had no idea. Not until after the affair with Rich.
Affair! That's a funny way to put it. How old was I? Seventh grade. But Rich did change everything. I know he didn't care anything about me. He didn't expect anything of me except that I be willing. And I was. Even when he hurt my feelings or treated me like shit, I was willing. Even after he stopped needing me, I still needed him and I was still willing. Even after he died, I was still willing.
And I found him in restrooms and bookstores and porn theaters. I let him know I was willing, and he gave it to me. And he gave IT to me. And I willingly took it.
David Koresh is like a savior to these people trapped in this building, this big house, this Compound. He's the Second Coming. If he looked anything like Rich White, I would be right there. I would be knocking on the door. I would be excusing myself past the ATF soldiers and knocking on the front door saying, "David, let me in! Savior!"
So I can understand how these people, these "surprisingly intelligent" people could fall for the likes of him. If he looked like Salvation to me, I would be right there, doing whatever he told me to do, drinking the Kool-Aid, having his babies, I would be willing.
He's trapped there and I'm trapped here, not far away. He doesn't know what to do next and neither do I. He is surrounded by all the people in the world who love him (except his grandmother), but he is all alone. I am just alone.
What are my options?
What are my options?
What are my options? What are my options? What are my options?
