Slow Leaks


I stared resignedly. I had hoped to keep my predicament optimistically ambiguous at least one more day. Unfortunately there was no longer any arguing the gravity of the situation before me, as it had now declared both its state and the consequences of my neglect. With a sigh and a couple last desperate looks back I retreated to my apartment.

Somewhere in the back of my head a familiarly naive voice posited a once regular theory that perhaps an external and benevolent force might remove me from my current state of affairs. Impossible as that possibility was I couldn’t blame myself for believing wishing that would happen. After all, it had only been 4 months since I lost the benefactor who had spent the last 27 years rescuing me from various severities of dilemmas. Since that time I’d no more learned to solve my own problems than a snake learns to fly; so relying on divine intervention was about the surest recourse I had. Still, as I lay in bed mapping the sheetrock of my ceiling while the timely relevancy of Larry McMurtry’s Duane’s Depressed to the circumstances of my life rang more prophetic than a message from the Angel of Mercy, I slowly, very slowly, felt the reality of the last quarter of my life layer me like blankets on a fevered child. Everything I’d faced I’d allowed to slowly atrophy, intermittently giving each problem a manically momentary amount of attention before ultimately concluding myself powerless to resolve it and thus relocating it to the recesses of my conscience.

Like the tire slowly deflating outside my window all my obligations were deteriorating, leaving me just as immobile as my truck. Soon I’d be swallowed by my tome of responsibilities: the utility payments on the house, the insurance on the vehicles, the titles to the house and vehicles, the student loan payments, the medical bills, health insurance, cell phone, rent, payments on my mom’s (I still can’t call it mine) car, the various legal costs still owed to the state of Texas. Just entertaining the existence of everything is enough to make me abandon it all for a life of vagrancy.

Finding no answers in the ceiling my upstairs neighbors were now transforming into their midnight bowling alley I retreated back to my book, Mr. McMurtry’s novel acting as an addict’s vice to whisk me away to an imagined world, a momentary distraction where my tribulations could not intrude. As I closed the book and turned off the lamp, signaling to myself that as much as I wanted I would not be staying up all night to finish the latest installment in the Duane Moore saga, I reconciled the reality that there are a lot of slow leaks in my life, and I’d better pay them better attention than I had my truck.

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