Confused Head West

A Story by Mike Santoria

What does one man do when life is ready for him, but he's not ready for life? We can all find ourselves in the main character, Alroy.

Confused Head West

Dark clouds cast over the simple home, where lives a simple man, his simple bedroom, and above all his simple lifestyle. There’s not much to anything, anymore.

Six in the morning: Mr. Simple reaches for his alarm clock that flashes a green reflection to the room. He sits straight up and turns to have his feet over where he rest. He does not move, but just sits there, as if he’s waiting for the day to come to him rather than him going after his day. Finally he stands and steps forward towards his window. The plastic blinds make noise as he splits his fingers and looks out into the world.

Things were not so simple out there. The glass window that moves up and down to bring fresh air to the tightly compacted room was a divider of two separate worlds.

In one world, Mr. Simple, who also goes by Alroy, had no worries; he was care free. There was not a single moment in his day where he had to deeply think, or use actual emotions to respond to something important. No, no he did not. He knew he was safe where he lay inside the four confined walls he called home.

Opposed to this frivolous environment, Alroy knew what faced him if he stepped out his door every morning.

Out there was destruction.

There were once buildings so tall it almost felt like you needed an oxygen tank once you got on the elevator going up. The skies were once blue, surrounded by moisturized air that grouped together so perfectly society gave them names. Cumulious. There was a time in that world where if you loved someone you told them.

Evidently, the buildings fell.. The skies were polluted. Love only got you killed, and everyone is now scared of what life is really worth.

Mr. Simple enjoyed being just that, simple, and alone. Maybe because he genuinely enjoyed the simplicity of being with his own thoughts. Whatever the case is with Alroy, he did not wish to change, or be changed, or have anything change his days, not anymore.

Eight in the morning: Pacing around the living room, Mr. Simple seemed to be in look of something. “Where the f**k could this be?” he questions himself sometimes when he does not know something.

He keeps walking. Head to the ground, turning side to side, eyes focused in on his dirty carpet he has not vacuumed in months. As time goes by he only gets more and more upset. “F**k,” he lets out a deep breath, like he was holding off on breathing to find whatever he was looking for first. He stumbled over a chair, swore some more, then kept looking.

It was as if he had to find what he was searching for at that very moment and that nothing else in his world mattered; it was the most important time of his day.

He pops up by straightening his back and yells, “What the f**k were you doing over there?” Alroy found his television remote. Not an old man, but an old enough man where losing the remote before breakfast was one of his worst fears.

Before the days of looking through windows and watching CNN were custom, Alroy lived a life outside.

When you needed that oxygen tank climbing up a skyscraper, or when you looked up at a blue sky on a summer day, he was around, somewhere. That time you fell in love, Alroy was walking just across the street.

But like most things, they change. Time after time things do change. The people, the scenery, the buildings, the jokes, society, it all changes
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Part II

Ten years ago a young irishman walks out of a bar around midnight. The streets were empty and it seemed as if he would have no trouble returning home. The only problem with that was he did not want to go home. Home to this irishman meant pain. It meant as soon as he stepped through his doors and his wife heard his foot steps, he would be thrown into this vicious cycle of love, lust, and loss.

He did love his wife, kind of. She was his only friend that he cared for deeply. He did feel the marriage falling however. Little things bugged this irishman, and not just being out of beer. Things like words, the dialogue his wife would use in certain situations. She never said the word forever or long term meaningful words that you would like to hear in a marriage.

It wasn’t just her words that he was upset about, the two would get very bored of each other. They would ask questions of what the other person wanted for dinner, but the answer was always, “whatever you want.”

They didn’t have sex for the past three months.

He knew his love was fading, the spark was gone, and with no kids to take care of it would be easy to leave in that manner.

The way things got to be the way they were was based on how this man treated life. He wanted to take his time and make every second matter. Things did not end up the way he once dreamed. But he was drunk at the time, so he didn’t really care.

The early thirties irishman gets in his car and lights his joint. He proceeds west.

Three in the morning: Stop. A bright light channels from its yellow glow to a dark red. Consciously the man hovers over the brake pedal but does not press down, he keeps going. Drunk, he runs the red light, he forgot he was the intoxicated one.

Nobody was on the road, so he thought, which gave him the idea to just keep going. He thought about his wife and his home. He imagined turning the car around and going back in the east direction, but he then would get this sick feeling in his stomach, so he kept going.

“F**k, f**k f**k f**k f**k.” he started talking to himself. “F**k.” once more.

He looked in his rearview mirror and saw three flashing lights on top of a car. Never having been pulled over before the thirty year old irishman tugs his wheel right. When the car did not get to the side of the road after one turn of the wheel he realizes he must have been driving in the middle of the road.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” a tall, dark haired officer with a gold name tag that spelled out Sheets asked.

“I was driving in the middle of the road.” he responds in a soft, gentle voice.

“You were driving in the middle of the road.” officer Sheets repeats the man's response in a sighing tone.

“It’s late. I was just trying to get home, I’m very tired.” said the offender.

“Officer please I was just trying to get home, I was out late drinking by myself at a bar and I just wanted to get home,” Sheets said in a mockery of the offenders last response. “How many drinks have you had tonight, sir?”

“None officer…. Sheets, I have not drank an ounce of alcohol tonight.” what the man does not realize is he is slurring his words so incredibly bad it’s like he was on an episode of Cops.

“Please get out of your car sir.” the officer asks politely so he can take the necessary steps to write off this man with a DUI.

Before the two of them knew it, officer Sheets was dead.

The irishman found himself again driving west, only this time with blood on his hands.

There was a gun under his drivers seat, when he unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out of the car, he turned around and told the officer he was getting his registration.

He turned back quickly towards the officer and said just two words before he killed him, “I’m sorry.”

Part III

Dark clouds cast over the simple home, where lives a simple man, his simple bedroom, and above all his simple lifestyle.