Just Shoot Me when I’m Useless


“You seen what they done to my dog tonight? They says he wasn’t no good to himself nor nobody else. When they can me here I wisht somebody’d shoot me. But they won’t do nothing like that. I won’t have no place to go, an’ I can’t get no more jobs.” Chapter 3, pg. 60

Gold Star for whomever gets that reference.

If I remember right, the only reason they shot the dog was because one of the suckups was trying to impress the boss, but it’s been awhile since I’ve seen the movie. Never read the book. Movies yo. They brought the old man a new puppy too if I remember right, but still, there was nothing wrong with the dog. It wasn’t serving a use on the farm anymore, but it was still a loyal friend.

I spose when I feel the most useless is when I get to feeling the lowest. By all accounts I’m quite successful right? Married, Father, educated, good pay, beat out about a million other swimmers crackin the egg. Why/how do I start convincing myself I’m useless? One little thing sets me off and it’s down the rabbit hole we go. I AM NOT USELESS. ya you just keep telling yourself that loser. You’re just a paycheck. They don’t need you. Just givem your money and go crawl in your bottle loser.

Because I’m a recognized expert at it, I propose that my drinking is merely a symptom. I’m obviously the equivalent of a PhD in Psychology by now with all this fucking self analysis. I started drinking, then it became a habit and oh by the way I was predisposed to being an alkie? Maybe. But I conjecture I started drinking b/c I didn’t have any better stress or depression coping mechanism. I started drinking to obscure my own insecurities about failing that were stressing and depressing me. <there’s an evil voice dangerously close to the front of my thoughts telling me I won’t be able to do it> wrote that waaaay back in college; when I was getting my ass handed to me by my engineering classes.

Ok, so fear of failure. Why so afraid then? Is it because of being pushed towards good grades? Lots of kids get that from their parents. Are they alkies too? Is it b/c my dad was such a friggin perfectionist? I always kind of rebelled against that. To this day I’m much less perfectionist, and more “it’s good enough”. I push my kids. Am I inadvertently creating neurotic alcoholics as we speak? The possibilities are endless.

I spose we all just do the best we can with our kids and hope they turn out alright.

**************

Lennie said craftily, “Tell me like you done before.”
“Tell you what?”
“‘Bout the other guys an’ about us.”
George said, “Guys like us go no fambly. They make a little stake an’ then they blow it in. They ain’t got nobody in the worl’ that gives a hoot in hell about ’em —”
“But not us,” Lennie cried happily. “Tell about us, now.”
George was quiet for a moment. “But not us,” he said.
“Because —”
“Because I got you an’ “An’ I got you. We got each other, that’s what, that gives a hoot in hell about us.” Lennie cried in triumph.
The little evening breeze blew over the clearing and the leaves rustled and the wind waves flowed up the green pool. And the shouts of men sounded again, this time much closer than before.
George took off his hat. He said shakily, “Take off your hat, Lennie. The air feels fine.”
Lennie removed his hat dutifully and laid it on the ground in front of him. The shadow in the valley was bluer and the evening came fast. On the wind the sound of crashing in the brush came to them.
Lennie said, “Tell how it’s gonna be.”
George had been listening to the distant sounds. For a moment he was business-like. “Look acrost the river, Lennie, an’ I’ll tell you so you can almost see it.”
Lennie turned his head and looked off across the pool and up the darkening slopes of the Gabilans. “We gonna get a little place,” George began. He reached in his side pocket and brought out Carlson’s Luger; he snapped off the safety, and the hand and gun lay on the ground behind Lennie’s back. He looked at the back of Lennie’s head, at the place where the spine and skull were joined.
A man’s voice called from up the river, and another man answered.
“Go on,” said Lennie.
George raised the gun and his hand shook, and he dropped the gun to the ground again.
“Go on,” said Lennie. “How’s it gonna be. We gonna get a little place.”
“We’ll have a cow,” said George. “An’ we’ll have maybe a pig an’ chickens…. an’ down the flat we’ll have a ….. little piece alfalfa—-”
“For the rabbits,” Lennie shouted.
“For the rabbits,” George repeated.
“An’ I get to tend the rabbits.”
“An’ you get to tend the rabbits.”
Lennie giggled with happiness. “An’ live on the fatta the lan’.”
“Yes.”
Lennie turned his head.
“No, Lennie. Look down there acrost the river, like you can almost see the place.”
Lennie obeyed him. George looked down at the gun.
There were crashing footsteps in the brush now. George turned and looked toward them.
“Go on George. When we gonna do it?”
“Gonna do it, soon.”
“Me an’ you.”
“You… an’ me. Ever’body gonna be nice to you. Ain’t gonna be no more trouble. Nobody gonna hurt nobody nor steal from ’em.”
Lennie said, “I thought you was mad at me, George.”
“No,” said George. “No, Lennie, I ain’t mad. I never been mad, an’ I ain’t mad now. That’s a thing I want ya to know.”
The voices came close now. George raised the gun and listened to the voices.
Lennie begged, “Le’s do it now. Le’s get that place now.”
“Sure, right now. I gotta. We gotta.”
And George raised the gun, and steadied it, and he brought the muzzle of it close to the back of Lennie’s head. The hand shook violently, but his face set and his hand steadied. He pulled the trigger. The crash of the shot rolled up the hills and rolled down again. Lennie jarred, and then settled slowly forward to the sand, and he lay without quivering.

–          Of Mice and Men; John Steinbeck

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~ by sobriety6923 on October 19, 2010.

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