Another thirteen hour shift had been completed. Hung-over, again. Working is only productive if you drink, if your brain is operating on a primitive level, writhing in pain. All of you thought concentrated on surviving the next minute, dosed on caffeine, sugar and whatever bland food your stomach can with stand, before loping to the toilets, head pounding with every step, greeting it with bile and blood for the fifth time that day.
That infinite monotony of cooking for fat-cats, at the pace I would run from the law. It is not living to work. It is just working. Corporation controlled working. The hierarchy above not interested in how:
You cook the chicken on a medium high heat in the freshest garlic oil and white wine, seasoned with salt, pepper and light sprinkling of thyme, developing the flavour over three minutes, dropping a small ball of chicken stock, weighed by eye, left to cook and work its way into the chicken but add forty percent fat cream before the harsh salty flavour ruins the succulent meat. Reduce. Fresh vibrant vegetable are added and the bulk of the meal is finished. Pasta boilers ready, one hundred degrees, fifty litres of scalding water. The pasta needs only seconds in the alarming temperatures before it has reached its optimum texture. Now mix and toss, use a large spoon to serve the pasta centrally in the dish, top with finely grated pecorino cheese and garnish with a sprig of fresh thyme. The dish should be at the table within thirty seconds, if the service aren’t over worked and understaffed from cuts. Usually they are.
They don’t care, they don’t care as long as they make their filthy money somehow. And this makes me not care. And if I have the slightest opportunity to fuck them, and only them, I’ll take it every time. Fuck their margins, budgets and schedules. I should have spat in your food when you brought your filthy clients to dinner. I had the opportunity to feed you chemicals and rat poison. Fuck it.
What does my directionless rage have to do with anything? This is why we drink. Drink poisons to make ourselves feel like we are living an adequate existence. Drinking is no longer the privileged ecstasy it used to be, more a brittle lifestyle that’s killing our imagination and productivity, not to mention our organs. The truth is hard.
We make the most of time we have off. And seeing as that is not when the business executives wish to eat, the night becomes our recreational consumption ground.
We each take two bottles of fine Italian red wine the company cellar, for the first time today I feel human, peeling off the foil, digging in the twisted metal, rotating and pulling. My lips suffocating the neck of the bottle, not really how such a wine should be drunk, although it was my only source of a legal drug for the evening, a necessity. Chugging. Chug, chug, chug. About 30cl gone straight to my poor tired stomach. I’m sure it has just realised what the substance is and is now preparing for a day of cramping tomorrow. No food. Just drink.
(As a side note, I would consider myself to have a problem, but it seems to be normal, as all my peers seem equally as eager to consume, forget, work and regret. I guess we can conclude that we have a problem.)
A friend hurries the four of us along, speaking in Swedish I understand little, but the urgency in his voice seems ample evidence for my brain that I have to move faster and drink more. If A: I want to drink enough before some kind of authority catches us with open liquor. B: We want to make the last ferry to the island. And C: if we want to finish the bottles before arriving at the gathering, as only purchased poisons are permitted.
We get the twelve twenty three boat, walk straight past the kiosk for tickets and head to the upper deck with confidence that we were above paying for transport, unless it was to the moon. The bottles are taken out from under our jackets and the drill commences. Drink until you feel sick, until your stomach regurgitates, until you feel positively uncomfortable. Then drink more. I’m not sure if any other generation had the tolerance to alcohol that we have, but either way it’s too much, a counsellor would class all of us as alcoholics, but since its all of us, it’s still normal. This is how modern society functions in every capitalist system. Drink until you forget your job. Drink until you forget the people who have that abstract control on you. Drink until your memory is in a state of paralysis 3-5 times a week. Drink.
As the boat docs a sense of mischievous adventure is in the air. It is a warm balmy evening, the flies are teasing the fish in the water, playing with their wits, basking in the midnight sun, until finally a snap. The fly is no more.
My sense of coordination is faltering. I speak internally, “perfect”. Speech slurred, mindset is confrontational and content and I follow the blurs that I believe are my friends. Still whittling away discussing the best navigational route, I possess no idea where we are going, which is beyond perfect as surprises are something my conscience desires. We walk to a bar about 2km from the ferry station, an ample amount of time to have that entire fine alcoholic beverage pass down my throat.
Walking in, a wall of sound confronts me, far too loud at first, on the edge of the decibel rating that came with my body. Although the alcohol subdues the noise and I scream to my nearest friend. “DO YOU WANT A DRINK?” As to not repeat the amount of effort it took to make vocal contact, he knew that the chords lying deep in my oesophagus are now scared, the tall Viking nods. I refuse to ask him what, as punishment for his laziness. Two tequilas, with lemon balanced on the glass, small packets of salt, designed for this procedure. Two ice cold refreshing beers to whisk away the pain that is about to greet our tongues.
My drunken stupor forces me to prop up the bar, now relying, as I always do on the people around to guide me through the night ahead. I attempt to make intelligent conversation and be enthusiastic for about thirty minutes. I can feel roar pain inside of me from expressing myself, my thoughts, my feelings, my opinions. In an environment that is as harsh to talk as the Alaskan tundra is to walk.
I leave to find some new scenery, as I’m sick of the inside of bars, this has been a constant now for four years and everyone is the same. “I thought this night was going to be special?” My drunken conscience says to its self, my coordinated conscience replying with melancholy undertones, “it’s never special.”
A taxi arrives and as always I presume it’s for me, to the next adventure, grabbing a familiar face I tell him to direct the integrated Norwegian citizen to our final destination of consumption. Words are exchanged. I’m aware that the vehicle is moving. We are putting miles under our belt. I try for focus on the meter, the red light emitting diodes dancing around, specifically meant for drunken peoples impaired vision. I could have moved a mountain before I read that fucking frustrating device. I ponder the thought of clambering forwards, ignoring whatever advice anyone gives me, stopping as if the situation was resolving it’s self and then striking that bastard meter with my bare hands, launching out the window into the wilderness to count the time (and money) that it’s going to take before the unfriendly shit-face driver finds it, whist I run into the night free. I don’t do that. But I spend the rest of the journey silent, pondering within my imagination at my drunken creativity, marvelling at myself and how if there was as god I am certainly a direct relation for coming up with such a magnificent plan. Really it was just vandalism and stealing. But things are different when you’re intoxicated. We arrive. I resentfully pay the cunt. Get my bearings.
I’ve never been to this place. My brain is lost, confused and surprised. Perfect.
Still being guided, I hear a faint din over the horizon. We take a small path into the woodland which seems to have been trodden more than the average amount. My eyes drift, I see excessive left over’s of other self inflicted body abuse littering the grassy verge. Containers of all shapes and sizes vulgarly decorating the nature. I pity the poor woodland bumblebee that is going to elegantly hum into the brightly coloured metal flower, consume the nectar, take an abstract way home and then beat his wife until she turns to the metal flowers as well. Ten minutes pass.
In the not so distant distance, I’m shocked to see a small booth with a man decorated as a hells angel standing on guard. It has a sign stating 250kr. I’m not about to argue, but I mull over fighting the brut and how excruciatingly one sided that battle would be. My wiry fame could only hope to humiliate him for a few second before my comeuppance was served, cold. I open my wallet and his grubby fingers claim a few notes of one of the strongest currencies in the world.
We come across a lot of two wheeled motor vehicles parked in no order, no consideration of another person wishing to leave, no consideration at all. As if this was the last mass gathering they would all be going to. At least knowing that operating a large robust motorcycle was the last thing they would be attempting to perform at the nights end.
I’m in a beach cove that is holding four stages, set up in an amphitheatre style. All focus was on the rough and dirty blues musicians that were greeting the stage in no order. Music started, they danced. Music stopped, they drank. It was in an infinite cyclic pattern that was for as far as I was concerned was going to last for the rest of time. A bonfire was raging in the centre, eyes were mesmerised, wood was pulverised, ashes to ashes and all that.
I could see a fellow chef that had been thinking, then drinking, now drunking, rolling around in the light dirt, enjoying the liberal attitude of the bikers, everything was an expression of one’s self. I greeted him, drink tokens were sprawled everywhere and a gesture that was indescribable was made, I just bought more drinks. It seemed to be the order of the culture. Drink until you have had far too much and then drink yourself out of that dark, dim, rotting rabbit hole.
The bearded poncho-wearing biker handed me the ice cold beers, in exchange for the sodden tokens, with a scowl that said “don’t do it again you little fucker.” The plastic began to crumple under the clutch of my dirty hand. A mixture of condensation and soil was now running between my fingers. A brainwave struck me, so genius that the devil himself could not have intervened. I took several carefully placed steps to my right, cupped the underside of one of the vessels and launched the insufficient glass towards my companion. We began to brawl like ruffians, throwing and spinning, brushing each other with our fists in a playful manner, soaked in the pale golden ale, losing ourselves, losing ourselves. Soon to be pulled apart by a large man completely adorned in black leather. “We don’t tolerate this kind of behaviour.” I thought everyone here was on the brink of grabbing the nearest living creature, beating them until they were happy, laughing it off, drinking some more. However this new breed of Hippy-Hells-Angles stared us down to the point where our actions were silenced. I spoke to myself “what do they expect if alcohol, the most vile, corrupting substance known to man was their drug of choice?” A drug where all you try to do is hold on to yourself until your grip with sanity is broken, your only choice then was to ride the rollercoaster, or put yourself into a coma. I voiced daringly under my breath “pussys”.
The rest of the night was sprinkled with unfathomable conversation, erratic dancing and pure thinking from the id. We enjoyed ourselves, they enjoyed their selves. A crooked harmony was lived until the earliest hours.
Someone grabbed my arm and I was thrust away from the campfire, told that we needed to find some accommodation to rest, so we proceeded, proceeded back up the woodland trail, trudged and trudged. I was still in the mood for trouble, so when least expected it I set my palms towards the oafish viking like figure. He tumbled and tumbled down the grassy bank, head over heels, loosing possessions, orientation and stature as the man he once was. I laughed. I laughed at his wailing, i laughed at the fact he lost his wallet, I laughed at the effort he had to put in to stand. A twenty degree slope is hard enough to walk up when you can walk. He crawled back up in a fury, fishing around for the money he didn’t have, fishing around for the overdrawn bank cards, fishing for the coppers. Fishing. Eventually the black piece of cloth that housed these useless possessions was found and after a brief exchange of outraged drunken speech we were back on the road.
Walking, my least favourite method of transport has been happening for about twenty minutes, every vehicle, taxi, family sports wagon, motorbike, drove past us with a scowl on their faces, we couldn’t even pay our way out of this situation. I was ready to drop, sleep, anything apart from this recurring rhythmic step after step bullshit. It was at this point my eyes awakened from their glazed drunken state and I caught a glimpse.
The water sparkled and shimmered in the bright morning sun, I knew its beauty was going to be overwhelming, healing and it was calling me directly. Nothing was going to stop my advance to the edge of shore. I needed that water, in me, on me, surrounding me.
I made a swift dash away from my peers, now tumbling myself, down through the woodland, getting ever closer to my goal, sanity, purity, medicine. I heard distant cries, my name was ringing in the crisp morning air. I replied and told them I had to go to the water. It was an impossibility to go back to that road. It was at that point I realised my goal in life. Lining the dirt road I saw ‘free’ water transport devices everywhere, different shapes, sizes, expenses. One of them was for me.
I heard footsteps and shrieks coming from behind, instructing me to come back to the road, no human tells Steve Lewis what to do when he’s this close to such a momentous personal glory. I stated my intentions and offered the small Swedish girl that she could be a part of this or leave immediately, that she had better be strong, willing and courageous if she was coming along. Contemplating this hadn’t even crossed her mind, but now, but now the notion had been placed in The River Styx of her mind and sailing closer and closer towards the devil. We were stealing a boat and making it back to the mainland on personal merit, without cost, gaining liberation and freedom.
We are now in a sleepy boatyard. 6am. Our wits switched on. Me barking instructions in a hushed yet forceful manner. “GET SOME OARS” I whispered. “HELP ME WITH THIS BOAT”. Both requests were executed swiftly and efficiently. Drunken determination is not an emotion to be questioned when stealing is involved.
We gave the little red boat a final push and it entered the calm glassy water with elegance. It looked proud to be floating again, serving its purpose and using its buoyancy. Not over turned, gathering moss, waiting for the next child to clamber over it, whilst playing a game of hide-n-seek.
We boisterously jumped in, litres of water flowed over the sides, determination thrust the fjordian water out. Palms wet and minds on the edge we grabbed an oar each and began rowing for the headland to the north. Every stroke was like evading some sort of mythical authority. We were free at that moment, free from the clutches of society, free from laws, parents, regulations and corporations. Free.
Once the headland was passed, justification of our possession was concluded and our consciences were clear. We rowed at a lazy pace, taking in the pristine Norwegian nature that surrounded us. Talked about life and living in the privacy of the open. The past, present and future was all discussed with positivity. A minor feeling of enlightenment was in the air. Cue montage.
Eventually after 4 hours of rowing, the novelty of the little red boat had worn off. Tiredness and hunger were among the strongest convincing emotions to ditch our noble steed and make our way back to the mainland. We moored the in a space that was meant for a much larger vessel, although we felt that it deserved not just a space in the boat yard, but a boat yard to its self. Snapping a quick photo for evidence, we fled the scene of the crime. Skipped a bus and ferry back to the city. Decided that free food could be the only bonus of our the corporation of choice. So we stumbled back to the prison we had escaped from 11 hours ago.
Ironically I was only asked to start a shift unexpectedly. Checking my mental stature, I came to the conclusion I was hideously hung-over. The perfect state for productivity at work. And so the cycle began again. Work, drink, work, drink, work. I wonder which will kill me first?
This is not the lifestyle schooling is supposed to hand us. Doubt and worry plagues my levels of consciousness, lashing my soul, striking it with invisible whips, pleading it to take notice. The generation I belong to is lost. Realisation of reality is far from being realised. The youth need to start experiencing the extremes. Living Choice. We are expected to grow into the corporations, become the flourishing leaves and flowers but it is an impossibility when the roots are monetarily corrupted, selfish and rotten.
We are doomed to become dead leaves. Compost to the same machine. Compost in The Garden of Ignorance.
