Chapter 1:

Father Roger Waters Leading Mass in the Bathtub

There is a sense of protocol that we, as humans, have to follow. These are not laws, just guidelines; not taught, just instinct; and not ritual, just tradition. Protocol is not enforced but expected, and protocol is not necessary but is life itself. It is the draft of human nature and all that branches from it. Protocol is when you make a decision after anticipating the immediate consequences of your action. To disagree with protocol is merely mental retardation. For example, if a child smiles at you, you either look away or smile back and maybe even give a little wave. If you do something like bark or yell at the child, you already know that the reactions from the people around you aren’t going to be very positive. So, you see, to follow protocol is to do as most people would intend to do.

Of course, there are those that claim to be the rebels of protocol: the non-conformists. These people are extremely confused and really don’t understand that they are following protocol as well. It is human nature to question authority and to stand up when you know that something is wrong. A human’s soapbox is merely a commodity in the necessities of life.

I dropped the lighter down on the bathtub’s rim and inhaled the sweat mainstream smoke of the cigarette. I luxuriated in the wanton satisfaction and leaned back in the tub. I pulled my knees up as they broke the water’s surface and took another drag.

I found bath-time as more of a period of relaxation than a source of hygiene. Nothing seemed hygienic to me about bathing in your own filth. Just the thought of being in your natural element seemed like a comfort to me, so this seemed to be my sanctuary. Plus, the bathroom was the one room in the house deemed for privacy. Your own bedroom is no longer a place for privacy. God forbid you’re in there by yourself or in there with a member of the opposite sex with the door locked because if you refuse to unlock that door because you want to remain private, you’re royally fucked. However, in the bathroom, you had a right to privacy. Whether you’re shitting, pissing, bathing, or prepping, you had a right to yell at the invader to leave the premises. Hell, it’s only protocol.

As the bathtub continued to fill with hot water, I tapped the ash of the cigarette into a little Dixie cup and brushed a few stray hairs out of my eyes. I crossed one fleshy leg over the other and my foot slowly swayed to the rhythm of the intro to “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd. The sound of the guitar seemed forlorn and sad. The intro is what drew me to this song in the first place. It’s the point in the song where you just know that this was going to be a good one. The lightness of the guitar hinted at delicacy and vulnerability that only a true musician knew how to do. It takes steady flirtation and finesse to treat an inanimate object as well as that. To caress and to treat an instrument as well as that is just pure sex. And, of course, what comes with sex is the romance, and I don’t mean romance as in love; I mean romance as in raw emotion and passion. I didn’t need Roger Waters’s words to let me know how sad he was; musical sex is a universal language.

The hypnotizing and smoky tail of the cigarette smoke was slowly escalating toward the ceiling and lulling me to sleep. The curves and swirls of the deadly poison seemed so beautiful in this humid, moist air and seemed to almost hang there like a portrait against the army-green walls. It danced slowly to the pulse of temporary life that resonated in the acoustic guitar. Some people say that to base your entire perception of life around music is fickle and hardly a steady foundation for any opinion whatsoever. I beg to differ; music is the one thing that can help you look at a cigarette, a bringer of death, and see the beauty in it. That fickle fabrication was my aphrodisiac for appreciation of the lesser things in life. Someone has to have a true appreciation for these silent killers!

“We’re just two lost souls swimmin’ in a fish bowl, year after year…”

I exhaled the smoke hastily and dipped my head underneath the water. I could still hear some remnants of the music from underneath the surface. I opened my eyes and stared through the warped window. I could only assume this is how Alice felt when she was staring through the Looking-Glass. The fluorescent lights, which once seemed so annoying and harsh, now wavered and glowed softly like candles in church. The hymns for today’s service were being sung by lit cigarettes and the preacher was going to be none other than the silent killer Father Roger Waters. Amen, motherfuckers.

A short jump of laughter went through my chest. I had been brought up in a strict Catholic family and used to go to church every Sunday with white gloves on and a ribbon in my ponytail. I used to be a good little Catholic schoolgirl with a plaid jumper on my back and plastic black flats on my feet. I remember one time as a kindergartener; we were walking towards the chapel. My teacher had to bodily pick me up and carry me into the church. I was afraid of Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost. It’s all logical, though. How can you tell a five-year-old that a man was tortured and killed by his own people and then rose from the dead and still expect her to love and worship him? Maybe it was just a foreshadowing of things to come for this little Catholic schoolgirl or just plain wrongdoing on their part. Either way, no normal kid came out of that school.

As pressure slowly began to build up in my chest, I entered reality and smoothed back my sable hair. I breathed in and exhaled, reaching for my slowly burning cigarette. I took one more drag before I stamped it out and pulled the plug to the bathtub.

I came to terms with the fact that I wasn’t normal a while ago. I knew that the thoughts that went through my head were fucked up and that it was probably best that I kept them to myself. I used to bring up my philosophy in class discussion and the only place it got me was the counselor’s office while the fat, middle-aged lady only made me feel worse about myself. Her name was Mrs. Barce. She made me wonder whether or not the school actually held interviews when they hired their employees because Mrs. Barce was one broken vending machine away from jumping off the top of the school. She continuously brought up my parents’ divorce, acting like it was the root of all my problems. I tried to convince her that it wasn’t and that, if anything, the divorce made things better for me at home. But, of course, any kind of change is bad change, so my parents’ divorce obviously made me a head case.

That’s the problem with people nowadays. They all think that change is bad, progression is evil, and that banality is the way to paradise. Maybe that’s why I resented my religion so much. They were built upon ultra-conservative family values. They preached forgiveness but not tolerance, but how can you have one without the other? Are you just supposed to bite your lip and nod or wholeheartedly accept a situation? Goddam hypocrites.

I thrived off change, and I’m beginning to think that other people do, too. Hell, it could be the leading cause of attention deficit disorder among today’s teenagers.

I stood up in the bathtub and reached forward to turn on the shower. A cascade of ice-cold water baptized my skin and it felt almost like I was being born again. I wrapped my arms around myself, bent my head forward, and closed my eyes. I breathed in a sigh as I felt the dead skin cells, dirt, sweat, and sins wash off my body and swim down the drain.

The feeling of cold water flowing over a too-hot body was almost orgasmic. It felt like pleading nails dragging down your spine, and God knows how much I love that feeling. However, still being a virgin, I wasn’t too exactly sure of the feeling of an orgasm, so don’t quote me when you take an ice-cold shower after a scalding-hot bath and feel no satisfaction.

I blame the time before the divorce on my hesitation towards the pleasures of the flesh. It’s not that I was sexually abused or anything, I just held no trust in males to really give myself to them, body and soul. If you don’t mind, I don’t like to get too in-depth with ultra-secrets too early in the game. A good make out session was always good enough for me; I’ll just take care of the rest, later, by myself. I had some trust issues when it came to relationships. I never held a steady boyfriend. I always seemed to do something wrong, but I never understood exactly what I did. Of course, I always spent the usual week-long grieving period over the lousy sap before I moved on to the next young man that came along. What can I say; I thrive on change to keep me going.

I began to scrub my skin with the soap and contemplate a little bit less. I waste too much time thinking and usually end up making a stupid mistake. Sometimes I’ll be going into the kitchen looking for a knife whilst thinking too hard about something and accidentally grab a spoon. ADD is a bitch.

The Pink Floyd CD was still playing as I could hear my mother’s alarm clock going off. That meant that it was 5:20 am. I had to give props to my mom. She was always on the six o’clock train going to downtown Chicago to work at a job that she hates to only come home at seven o’clock at night to a dirty house and a restless teenage daughter that’s too busy with her own shit to worry about her. But, I still appreciated everything she did for me, even if she thinks that I don’t.

I turned off the water and opened the shower-curtain. The cold air hit my body and I shivered as I reached for a towel. I wrapped it around my body and sauntered into my bedroom to prepare for the day ahead.

I opened my closet door and an array of clothes stared at me. They were quite a variety just because I chose to dress in more ways than one. In my opinion, stereotypical outfits were overrated and I chose not to limit myself to what I wear. The cliques didn’t fascinate me and I could give a shit less if someone liked my outfit. Unlike music, fashion is fickle and changes every week. There is no universal language for fashion, only the facial expressions of admiration and distaste for it. However, my little act of rebellion is nothing original. Although I hate the band Nirvana, look at Kurt Cobain. He was the spokesperson in the revolution against fashion, and the grungy flannel became the epitome of fashion in the early 90’s. Our acts of rebellion mean nothing; we are simply following protocol. Fuckin’ corporate bastards.

I chose a beige t-shirt and a forest green long-sleeve shirt to wear underneath it. As I struggled into the outfit for today, I heard my mom throwing up in the bathroom. Most children would rush into the bathroom and ask their vomiting mother what’s wrong, but this has become routine for me. Ever since I was ten and my mother’s gallbladder exploded and she had to get her pancreas removed, she has had mornings like that when all she’ll do is throw up. I’ve learned to let her ease it out and after that she’ll be back to normal within five minutes and three gulps of a Ginger Ale. Still, that was the point in my life where I learned to appreciate my mother. The doctor had told my older brother and sister that my mom was going to die. They didn’t have the heart to tell me until after the operation was declared a success and my mother’s life was a guarantee. It’s amazing how a death sentence can all of a sudden snap you back into reality and help you realize that you are nothing without your creator.

After about a minute of silence, I walked out of my room to go into the bathroom to do my makeup. My mother was dabbing her watery eyes with a tissue. I picked up the mascara and watch my mom leave the bathroom like a ghost and walk into the kitchen.

I suppose change can be a bad thing. After my mother’s particular change, it made life a little bit harder for all of us, but we just kept pushing forward and climbing back up on to our comfort level. We all gave a little to make sure that life would be enjoyable for all of us. That’s how humans work. We push the bad memory back into storage and keep moving on with a sense of a hope. We are just following protocol.

“Running over the same old ground… and how we fo-und… the same old fears… year after year…”

Amen, Father Roger.