Wedding Day Massacre

The floor buffer was spinning on all cylinders and working in a polish to the tile that was so pristine it was a thing of beauty. The glossy sheen came into Perry’s line of vision; he’d finally finished the floor. In the weathered janitor’s estimation, one good turn deserved another.

From his zippered breast pocket, he extracted his best friend—his frequently filled steel flask of Wild Turkey. The stiff, supposedly “super-premium” Kentucky bourbon never let him down.

All the people he loved and looked forward to spending time around would dry up and die eventually. In fact, they all already had. The women who saw something in him would find a reason to turn their backs, but the drink would always be there waiting.

He was tired of feeling nothing day after day except for the ever-gnawing dread that served to slay the slightest hope in his skull. Even if it was a shitty feeling, at least the shock treatment he was giving his taste buds regularly throughout each boring hour made him feel something.

Perry sucked back on the medicine that made his existence bearable and gazed through the stretching windows of the conference room stone-faced. While the juice still had a funky flavor and woke him up, it didn’t cause him to grimace or shudder any longer. His tolerance was on a tier where the poison couldn’t normally afford him a buzz, it simply made him ‘normal’ again.

Through the spotless window, he noticed the hundreds of cars in the parking lot of the Biltmore and keyed in on one. The ivory white BMW M8 had ‘JUST MARRIED!’ painted on the back of the rear window and the classic can collection hanging from the tail end.

Sebastian’s car was the type that Perry never even dreamed of sitting bitch in, let alone owning. He was born out of poverty with a limited skill set. The dimensions that hadn’t already been automatically hindered by nature were busy being suffocated by the disease.

He’d caught a glimpse of the bride and groom earlier down the hallway. They both seemed so enthralled to be with each other, a feeling that he strongly doubted he’d ever be able to claim.

Must be nice having so many people that care, having each other, having any goddamn one really, Perry thought, swallowing down another Goliath gulp of both the bourbon and his own harsh reality.

The primary reason for his woes, aside from the obvious issues, was that he’d always been painfully shy. His quiet and out-of-place politeness had no place in the dog-eat-dog environment he was raised in. Growing up in the part of Yonkers that was just north of the Bronx, the color of his skin made those around him have certain expectations. Expectations that he wouldn’t conform to no matter what the consequences.

Considering his lack of parental supervision, it was a bit of a miracle that he’d been able to navigate his way through the chaos and bad intentions. He didn’t have luck but he always had instincts.

Perry’s momma didn’t really deserve the title. She was always chasing men down dark alleys or looking for the next loaded needle. Their weird relationship was more than fractured, they hadn’t exchanged pleasantries in years.

As for a male role model, that concept had always been a pipe dream. Perry had never known his father but he always knew himself. He might’ve gotten pushed around but he never allowed himself to become what they saw him as. He’d rather have been six feet under.

Perry had never been aiming to sling dope, steal cars, or roll with self-proclaimed gangsters, but the shallowness of the streets and stereotyping of the populous left his body its fair share of bumps and bruises. Worse than the damage to his exterior was the harm to his psyche. He became even more of a recluse; the definition of a loner.

While the nasty parts of his surroundings beat him into submission, there were still parts of the street culture that he enjoyed. The musical aspects of the concrete jungle were something he related to and had always yearned to be a part of.

He was always mystified from afar when he was witness to the creative elements that arose on the boulevard. The style was charming because of its perseverance. Some people turned an evil eye to the grit but it wasn’t all bad. The extreme poverty, more often than not, didn’t allow them guitars, amps, and fancy drum sets, but they used what they had and created a different kind of music.

Whether it was cats rapping on the stoop, sweat-suited squads breakdancing in the park, or strangers beatboxing on the subway, the street people found a way. They made their own flavor, one that Perry had been dying to taste since the early 80s.

The only problem was, Perry wasn’t prepared for the risky side of the coin that might land. In the end, the criminal element that had infiltrated the scene and style he’d worshipped, and had kept him closeted about the one thing that brought him the most joy in that dark period.

Instead of pursuing his passion, he just kept his head tucked down and remained a quiet blank canvas. The less he showed them, the less they had to hurt him with.

Once he finally escaped New York, he felt some relief being able to have his independence. It was nice not getting fucked with every time he had to step out onto the curb.

While the physical threats had been put to bed, he had a new problem now. The sheepish nature that he eventually expected to grow out of had been significantly magnified. He’d evolved into a total introvert.

As Perry continued to stare blankly at the symbol of love that was what Sebastian’s jazzed-up vehicle represented, he asked himself why he didn’t trust people. Inside, he already knew the answer, he’d been over it in his head a thousand times. The internal debate always ended in the same way. He wanted the answer to be different but, eventually, the truth always had to surface.

He was tired of being let down. While he’d found a way out of the city, he understood the mentality was airborne and had quickly found out it didn’t exist purely where his roots were.

He found that it was just far easier to mute his interactions and avoid potentially dealing with people’s rigid preconceptions altogether. Perry discovered his time in seclusion was more eventful than rolling the dice in the tricky and often stressful realm of conversation.

Speaking to women never came easy, so he mostly steered clear of it, which wasn’t difficult to do. Where exactly was he supposed to meet them? When he was lugging around a mop bucket or unclogging the toilets? While he didn’t want to have to deal with disappointment, a big hunk of his heart ached for companionship.

Still, Perry was happy that the nice couple had found each other because that was just who he was as a person. But another part of him envied them and wished he could find something similar. If only the stars aligned and offered him a chance.

Perry emptied out the remainder of the flask into his mouth and slipped the void container back into his maintenance suit. He shook his head left to right, trying to wake up, and looked back at the buffer.

“Well, I guess we got one more room, then we’re outta here. Are you ready?” he asked, questioning the machine like it was a person. Sadly, it was probably closer to him than anything with a heartbeat.