Shall my laziness be unbroken? Quoth the three-eyed raven, ‘Nevermore’

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NEC LOGO GSMSunday in the city and I’m a hot mess, burned out couch side, copper tongue sagging out the side of my mouth, just trying to figure what to do with my day. So many hours left to kill before the “Battle of Winterfell” begins.  If only I had a barrel of Dragon Glass to sharpen, or a hobby that involved something other than tending to my vices to occupy my time.

It’s a cinch for some, a struggle for others, to fill those hours when you have a wide open Sunday to do whatever.  No job to hustle off too, no family time to adhere too, no “Bed, Bath and Beyond” to sulk your way through. No, nothing to do, not on this particular Sunday.

Yet, I’m consumed with guilt, struggling to understand my allegiance to this state of laziness as I finger the remote, wasting away in my own Sabbath stank.  I don’t hike, ski, jog. I don’t sweat either. I don’t even like to bend over. That’s what I’m dealing with as I peel myself off the sofa and head over to look out the back window, contemplating my afternoon, my existence.

Damn, it’s sunny out.  Look at that. Bastard.  Even looks warm for this time of year.  I lift the window ever so slightly, just enough to stick my bulbous nose under to whiff at the air.  Smells warm, a bit soggy. I can almost hear the grass growing. Rats!

Now what?

Not long ago, my Sundays would be stuffed with family jive:  goo-goo kid parties, carriage rides and bouncy houses, forcing conversation with strangers I’m supposed to know.  Those days are over, thank God. But, now what? Should I become a tough mudder, a fisherman, take up tennis again, maybe buy a chrome two-wheeler and start cutting into all those backroads?  I just don’t know. I’m at a crossroad.

Instead, as I looked through the window, I noticed the shed door in the backyard was open.  Haven’t seen the inside of that disaster since late last fall. Last interaction we had I was gunning two rakes and a weed wacker into it, saying, “Stay warm boys. Gonna be a cold winter.”

But the door was ajar and I saw my son’s bike, his brand new used one that was given to him by guy he helped rake leaves for months back.  Good looking bike, too, as I remember. Half mountain, half speed bike. Light as a tissue.

“Don’t do it,” I say to myself “You’re gonna regret it. You’re not built for that kind of action.”

Then, there I was, bending over, sweating, pulling out rakes and wackers, tarps and garden hoses, trying to work the bike out of the shed.  Sucker was jammed in there, but, I got a hold of it, swore with vigor and muscled the bike out.

Phew.  I was tired already.

I loaded the bike into the back of my pick-up and headed south on Mammoth Road, determined to purify my Sunday on a bike trail in Manchester along the Merrimack River.  I was all in, dressed in a Britney Spears concert T-shirt, boots and mechanic pants, a vanilla clove hanging from my lip. Perfect biking gear.

Lightnin’ Hopkins surrounded the cab of the truck, soothing my senses, leading me towards Fishercat Stadium (or whatever it’s called).  I remember filing my face with a fat sausage the previous summer watching a game, looking down between innings as I leaned over the back railing of the stadium, noticing for the first time the bike trail that lead along the river behind the grandstands.

“Oh, so that’s where all the foul balls end up.”

It stuck in my head, and now I was heading to tackle that trail.  I pictured beauty, a canopy of green branches, a peaceful retreat from my boggled mind that roars and crashes for days on end.  This, I needed to do. It would be good for me, get outside of myself, be one with the city, taste the rush of the river as it sprinkles my cheeks.

Arriving, the parking lot is empty, except for a small pack of people that all seem to be sharing the same cigarette who aren’t biking, but meandering around a rock, over dressed, tired-eyed.  I give a nod to the posse as I steady the bike under my own sagging frame.

“Sup?”  They ignore my gesture.  Cool.

The seat of the bike feels like I’m straddling a pool cue, but I’m off, giving Sunday all I got.  Wow, my legs and lungs are already burning. My arms are wobbling. I feel violated down under. “Keep your pace, meat,” I say.  “Steady as she goes.”

The first thing I notice is the vast array of power drinks strewed on and beside the dirt trail, crushed cans bent in the center.  Blues, purples and reds. Cans and cans of power drinks. Not protein drinks … sugar drinks, rocket fuel. Legal speed. Come to think of it, could’ve used one.

Then, riding along, I see two dead squirrels laying in the middle of the trail, both skulls crushed under matted gray hair, baby teeth glaring up at me as I steer the bike between them.  Gross. Hating nature so far.

I catch some wind and start to feel the ride.  Good, good. Keep going. Spit if you must. Air out you wretched hack.  That 30-pack you drank isn’t going to drain on its own. Breathe, beef, breathe.

I peer off into the Merrimack.  I love this river, how it cuts hard, like a sharp blade over the rocks and fallen concrete.  White caps in parts, glass smooth in others, this is the bloodline of the Queen City, it’s deepest vein.  Doesn’t bother me that a coffee table is floating on its back down the river, revealing but two skinny wooden legs, providing character, as I see it.  Same goes for the shopping cart getting hammered with the current as it lays pinned against the footing of the pedestrian bridge.

Further down the trail, I see someone approaching, a stoic figure heading towards me.  He looks like John Wick, dressed in all black, gorilla arms at the ready. Walking slowly before me as I pedal my bike, I give a head nod to the stranger, and, once again, a stranger denies me kindness, staring forward instead, as if I don’t exist.   Cool.

This was a fun excursion, but I’m done.  I U-turn at the end of trail, which leads to a main road, which leads to a neighborhood of water dwellers.  Nice pads, isolated, private.

Heading back, I feel the weight of this Sunday falling off my shoulders. Fifteen-minutes is all I needed to realize that I’m better off baking in my own malaise, counting the hours before the launch of the midnight massacre between the living and the dead.

Which am I?  Only the Three-Eyed Raven knows for sure.


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Rob Azevedo can be reached at onemanmanch@gmail.com. His new book, “Notes From The Last Breath Farm: A Music Junkies Quest To Be Heard” is available at The Bookery and Amazon.

About this Author

Rob Azevedo

Rob Azevedo is an author, poet, columnist and radio host. He can be reached sitting in his barn at Pembroke City Limits and onemanmanch@gmail.com