graysonarthurhammond-blog

[graysonarthurhammond-blog]

memory lane.

december 31, 2019

The sun sets on another day. Today was a bit cloudy so we really only left the house around 3PM. Still haven’t been able to find a good replacement for this useless Rolex. Didn’t get the hype when I couldn’t afford one, and I still don’t get it now that one is strangling my wrist. I mean it looks nice and all, sure. Anything covered in diamonds looks nice when you don’t pay a small mortgage for it. I remember reading once that one of these tiny clocks sold for around seventeen million or so. I bet that guy felt pretty good about himself that day. I wonder where a seventeen million dollar watch like that is right now. I’m sure it looked beautiful, too. But looks aren’t what keep this thing going, and I need a functional alarm. Just in case. Abby’s been giving me the same look all day. That “I told you not to get too close to the water, dummy!” look. The same look she gives me anytime I do something stupid. If only she could speak, maybe my Casio wouldn’t be at bottom of the river right now. Maybe I wouldn’t be searching the city looking for a basic G-Shock like it’s 1983. I think about that often. If only she could speak, it would make this whole thing easier. 

I haven’t seen or heard any other animals in about twenty minutes, so I’d say that gives me about an hour to lockup. I’m wondering if I should finish this bottle of chardonnay first, and knock right out before it gets too dark. Down to the cheap shit now. Pretty sure I’ve gone through all of the good shit in the city, which wasn’t the smartest idea considering the shelf life of wine. But that’s the bitter irony that plagues this new life. It’s almost become a supplement for standard comedy. At least I can get a smirk out of it. Fuck it, I think I’ll board up first. Didn’t eat much today so the bottle will knock me on my ass regardless. Better to be safe.

Decided I don’t feel like drinking tonight. Moderation really hasn’t been a problem for me, which is surprising considering it’s all there is to do around here. "A bullshit Hollywood TV survivalist who moonlights as a drunk is bound to slip up one day. You’ll lose everything." That’s what my father used to say. Oddly specific, I know. At the time he was using it to hurt me. Now it’s one of the things that keeps me alive. There’s that bitter irony coming back. Besides, there’s no point in destroying my liver if I’m really the only healthy one now. 

Speak of the devil; I hear one on the roof. Every night I can hear them jump from house to house, and usually it’s quick and loud. But tonight, I only hear one set of footsteps. The quiet, gentle tapping on the ceiling lets me know that one of them is looking for something. But I know it isn’t for me. Lockup is always before sundown, so they have no idea where I live. And it’s not like the bastards have any clue how to remember directions anyway. Vinegar and bleach on the porch takes care of any other kind of smell they mind find. Or at least I think it does. I don’t know the first thing about what’s turned us into such monsters. I never even heard of the term virologist before I saw Robert Neville on the news. Now there isn’t a day I don’t wish I became one. The spotlight always called me, though.  At least I wasn’t cooking and screaming at restaurant owners or talking about Kanye’s new outburst on TMZ. At least some of my qualifications transfer into this new world. Hollywood’s most famous TV survivalist becomes the only one to survive the apocalypse. Bitter irony.

Most nights like this, I don’t have much to entertain myself. The house is fully soundproofed, and I’ve made sure of that on the sunny days. But it’s important to be overly cautious. I still have no clue how evolved their hearing is, if it is at all.That’s why I always try to get home early; to have a little bit of downtime before I have to lockup. There’s a great record store on Milwaukee Ave called The Exchange, and they have tons of great records and movies. And I always return when I’m done watching, don’t worry. Making my way through the Gs right now. Goodfellas is the next one on the list, so I’m excited for that. But tonight was not one of those early nights. So fighting the urge to watch a movie or listen to a record is for the best, no matter how bad I want to escape. That just leaves me with my thoughts.

I’ve always hated nostalgia. Clinging to the past always seemed like an excuse to never move forward. I always believed that was what made me so successful in my endeavors. I always taught people how to be strong and smart in the present and the future. Tonight, like most nights, nostalgia was all I had. And God help me, if I wasn’t clinging to it like a newborn to a bosom. Three years later, some of the events start to fade. Hell, even some of the faces started to fade if I didn’t have pictures to remind me. That bitter irony creeps up again to share an anecdote. I remember a time that I was so stressed out about a talk show, or something like that. I think it was my first time on any talk show. It couldn’t have been Arsenio. Wait, was it? Well, I remember Prince was there. Maybe that’s why I was so nervous. I guess it doesn’t matter now. But I remember the feeling leading up to it, and how it felt like the world was ending. Then she walked into the green room holding Emily. And just like that, I remember the sinking feeling somehow disappearing. I’ve never been one for clichés, but it really was as if nothing else mattered but the three of us. I always said I was gonna marry that girl. I’d always loved her. Being the straightforward and logical man that I was had gotten me to where I’d been. But there was never a logical explanation for how she made me feel. And no matter how bad this got, I’ve always told myself that I can’t forget what Sarah looked like. Or Emily. They’re still out there, somewhere. I know it. There is no skeptic in me anymore, there can’t be. And when I fix this, I know that they’ll remember me.