Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Cary Grant

Cary was a fat slob with wide hips and overly zealous oil glands.  His name was Cary because his grandmother had thought his father resembled Cary Grant.  "You had those dark brooding eyes of his right from the start, oh what a handsome man!" she'd exclaim, leaving red pinch marks on his cheeks.  In truth, his father had looked more like Danny Devito, who also has dark brooding eyes but is decidedly less traditionally handsome.  This wasn't his grandma's fault, she'd only seen Cary's father once from a distance when he'd picked his mother up for a date.  Cary's grandmother was an eternal optimist and positive thinker. 

When her daughter escaped through her hospital room window after giving birth and his grandma was asked for a name for this brand new boy, she replied "Cary Grant Howard" without missing a beat.

Cary's childhood was as uneventful as the childhood of any fat boy with a girl's name.  He fantasized about losing weight and becoming a karate god, about his father coming back, about his mother coming back, about winning some contest that would make him rich and respected all at once, about his grandmother's cancer going away.  That's what hopeless and pitiful people do, they fantasize.  "Rich interior lives", is how it's kindly put.  Cary Grant Howard had a rich interior life. 

When people like Cary Grant Howard happen, there isn't an upside.  You have to just let them exist, like watching a vase fall over in slow motion.  His life is such a depressing cluster-fuck of abandoned hopes and cruelties, there's not really anything to be done.  This kid with B-cup boobs and a severe acne problem is listening to Megadeth in a greasy yellow Ocean Pacific tee shirt and these are the best times of his life.

Anyways, lives are long as hell.  I don't think we really consider when we're in the middle of them, as I am, just how long they really can be.  Maybe Cary will become a karate expert and maybe he'll lose the weight, who knows?  When he's sixty his acne won't be a problem, and there are plenty of fifty year old guys with tits, right? 

I guess what I'm trying to say is that when I was ten, i desperately wanted to be twelve, because I thought that when I was twelve, I'd be cool.  When I was twelve, I thought fourteen was the magic number, then sixteen, then eighteen, then twenty one, etc etc. 

For some people, fifty and sixty are the magic numbers.  At eighty, what does anything matter?  At ninety, we've all "made it", so we're all sort of the same, or close enough.  

I don't really know where I'm going with this.

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