Yacht Rock

Yacht Rock

By Ryan Brosmer

I woke up this morning with the feeling of having come down with some terminal illness. Nausea was the first thing I experienced after opening my eyes. It was the butterflies-in-your-stomach sort of thing. I stood up and then bent back over and balanced myself with one hand on my bed. My bones ached. The pain radiated from the inside out. I hobbled to the bathroom medicine cabinet and took two over-the-counter store brand Ibuprofen. The joints in my fingers were stiff and I wasn’t sure I would be able to get the cap off of the bottle. I feel like I’m addicted to those little red pills. They don’t make me feel anything and that seems appropriate.

I took the pills, drank half a bottle of water in one long draw and lay back down in bed. My head stopped swimming. The spots and stars and black holes in my vision dissipated and I felt the need to get fresh air. I felt lethargic. Everything combined I felt like a waste of space. The night before had been spent alone in my room listening to Elliott Smith on repeat. It was cliché. It was a bad idea when I was equal parts drunk and depressed. But it fit the cliché. It was the “trifecta” or something like that.
I got on my bike, walked outside and set out pedaling down the street without direction. I was going west, yeah, and that’s a direction, I know, but I had no destination in mind. I guess I should have just said “destination” in the first place instead of “direction”.

I didn’t know what time it was. I hadn’t checked. I hadn’t woken up to an alarm. There was no reference. The sun was kind of high above me. It was kind of hard to tell. Lots of people were outside. I passed a group of people who road past me, their direction was east and I guess that their destination was the river. The two girls in the group were wearing cut-off jean shorts and bikini tops. Squeezed in between they each had a horrible gut from the plague of Pabst Blue Ribbon that has scourged the population of this city. That was something I wouldn’t miss.

That was it. My destination became the grocery store. I was going to buy beer, anything but PBR. I felt like I deserved it. I wasn’t sure why but I didn’t feel like I had to explain myself because I was the only one involved in this decision. It would be my parting gift to myself.

I got home with my beer. Something seasonal. I sat on the deck drinking it. I opened the windows in my bedroom so I could hear the music playing from my computer. I didn’t listen Elliott Smith; I played Steve Miller Band. I mean, come on, this was summer.