I pushed so hard for night audit because I had this fantastic, blissful image in my head of eight uninterrupted hours of time to work on comics. Other than an inch high stack of shit to file there isn’t much else to do except watch out for people vomiting behind cars after the bars let out. That hasn’t happened yet but to be honest if it does I’m going to pretend I didn’t see it.
What I thought of was this utopian world of graveyard shifts where the moon was always silvery full and the lobby was full of sweet meadow grass instead of Berber carpet and I sat near a clear brook that ran around the desk pumping out one page of comics an hour with absolutely no discernible effort. In this orgy of self deceit I wore a flowing silken gown woven of star ejaculate and as the pile of bristol grew past my shoulder I would pause to stroke the neck of lithe fawn that had wandered into the lobby meadow.
And then when I filed the nights paper work I sang a song and sounded exactly like Florence and the Machine.
It was the most ludicrous thought in the entire world. That thing I just wrote about the fawn and the brook? That’s true shit. I actually thought that shit. Yet I believed this was the way working from the small hours of the night till the rosy middle finger of dawn was going to happen. I would have my nobel prize by thirty with all that free time.
But what’s really been happening is I sleep through the daylight hours wake up confused at 10 in the evening and go running down Polk street, dodging a pile of dog feces, then human feces, then an actual dog and rows of drunk girls hanging off of parking meter to get into whichever property I’m scheduled for. By the time I’ve counted the drawer I’m glassy eyed and only good for combing the Netflix instant watch for the most upsetting documentary I can find so that I can learn stuff.
Like last night I watched Touching the Void or as I’ve come to subtitle it Fuck Mountain Climbing: Fuck Mountain Climbing Forever.
I learned some really important lessons from that film. Lessons like Hey, the Andes mountains are a place that can kill you and if I ever break a bone I really hope it doesn’t break straight up into my thigh, exploding my knee cap. It’s good to have your horizons expanded like that.
Now I don’t know why the blue hell you’d want to get more than twenty feet of the ground but for the two men featured in the documentary mountain climbing was their bliss. There was just the little hiccup they had that one time when Joe broke his leg and they had to try to climb back down 33,000 feet but then Joe got dropped off a cliff and his best friend Simon had to cut the rope sending Joe to almost certain death in an icy crevasse of terror 150 feet below that.
Shit. I have been to picnics that I thought were a little too insense for me.
But there was still an hour of the movie left! Not only did Joe not die he had to climb his ass back down the Suila Grande mountain face and out of a precarious death pit he had to make it across miles and miles of boulders on a leg he had nearly jammed up into his torso.
He did this over the course of days.
In the meantime a shell-shocked Simon had made it back down to the base camp, wondering all the while if he should tell the truth about what he figures is his almost certainly dead friend. He does of course. Really he didn’t do anything wrong. They were stuck on the side of a mountain with Simon unable to see that Joe had gone over the edge. His belay seat was crumbling and he had sat there for hours before taking the gamble that Joe was only a few feet off the ground. Guess he came up snake eyes on that one…
The part that impressed me the most though is that while the story of the ordeal is recreated by actors the actual climbers are giving narration in voice over. At one point, about two goddamned hours after falling in to the icy death pit, Joe looses his shit and begins screaming and pounding the ice.
“FUCK!!!” He howls. “YOU STUPID FUCKING CUNT!!! FUCK! FUCK FUUUUUUCK!!!”
Now when the narration kicks in and Joe is talking about his meltdown he refers to it as “not the most mature way of handling the situation”.
What? What what? Dude, you are thousands of feet in the air. Your right leg is a sack of bone chunks. You fell into a bottomless canyon, it’s freezing and storming and you have no supplies. Let it out. For most people the hissy fit would have started upon looking at the mountain. I know personally I would have hurled my mittens to the ground, sat down on the nearest rock and started crying like a two year old denied a second juice box.
But this dude is actually sheepish about being upset over his completely fucked situation. You can’t not marvel at his enormous huevos at that point.
After Touching the Void I moved on to a documentary about child prostitutes and another about Hasidic Jews and then fell asleep at the desk for about twenty minutes.
I dreamed of streetwalkers with peyos praying fervently at a giant wall of ice while pimp Llamas waited in hatchbacks for their payment in root beer barrel candies…