Make Believe

When I feel that life ’s unfair
I just say a little prayer
and it gets better I declare
when I make believe

Maybe I’m a billionaire
or I specialize in car repair
I’m always so damn debonair
when I make believe

I could have a love affair
and we two would dance on air
always a certain savoir faire
when I make believe

Perhaps I’m singing for all Times Square
hear the roaring of the fanfare?
Ordinary? Ha! Au Contraire
when I make believe

I’m a dreamer extraordinaire
I may not have a special flair
but I’m building castles in the air
when I make believe

I guess I really should beware
but my life is so damn unfair
why am I here instead of there?
I guess I’ll make believe

I like this one. Mostly because the work fit my state of mind so well, and because it was so true. This one really came from the heart and I worked hard on it to get the emotion just right. It was written in 1991 in a rather disheveled little apartment that I was renting on Long Island. An interesting setup in that my bedroom was down a rather ungodly flight of stairs, and the bath-room was at the top of the same stairway. It made for wonderful shower adventures in the dead of winter. One good thing about that place was that I was never alone -- the mice kept me company most evenings.

One amusing anecdote I’d like to share with you regarding that place; I’m fairly sure that after reading it you will have a better appreciation of the poem and its meaning.

I wasn’t making a lot of money at this stage of my life so everything I did was on the thinnest of budgets. The only reason I was living in this place is that it was better than the previous alternative -- which was my car. Between dumping all of my money into rent and my car, there was very little left at the end of week for luxuries, like food and clothing.

I was working at a horrible little warehouse manning the loading dock; essentially picking up and moving little boxes all day. I would make small talk with the UPS driver and try to feign enthusiasm when a shipment of 24 SAAB transmission kits came in via UPS Blue. I hated everything about my life: my job, where I was living, and my non-existent relationship with my non-existent girlfriend.

So one day after an exceptionally unfulfilling day of moving little boxes from one place to another, I climbed in my car and headed home. I drove past a McDonalds and noticed that there was a 2-for-1 cheeseburger meal special going on. Well, you didn’t have to hit me upside the head with a Happy Meal for me to realize that this was a pretty good deal for a poor box shuffler. I pulled up to the drive-thru and ordered one of the meals.

I snacked on some of the french-fries while I drove back home, thinking about how fortunate I was that I would have two entire cheeseburgers for dinner. In my haste to get inside and partake of my fast food feast, I forgot to close my car door completely. But we’ll get back to that later.

Once comfortably inside my 10x8 ft. bedroom -- serial murderers had better accommodations than I did -- I grabbed a cheeseburger out of the bag, placed the bag on the floor, and stretched out on my bed to enjoy my meal. About three quarters of the way through the first burger, I thought I heard something coming from under the bed. I ignored it of course, being much more interested in my quasi-nutritious supper. It was only after I heard the bag topple over that my interest was sufficiently piqued.

I leaned my head over to look at the spot on the rug where I had placed the bag, and with a surreal mix of horror and amusement I noticed that it was moving. I had gotten a possessed McDonalds bag, I thought. Either that or it’s homesick and has decided to start the long lonely trek back to the grease pit of its birth. Any explanation was better than what I knew the truth was. The Goddamn mice were eating my cheeseburger!

With a flick of the wrist that David Copperfield would be proud of, I snatched that bag straight off the floor and held it aloft. Like a scene right out of Poltergeist, the bag was squirming and wriggling in my hand, and I had to make a decision; namely, what the hell do I do now? If you can believe it, I actually wrestled with the thought of fighting the little bastard for the last cheeseburger. After all, it wasn’t every night that I had the opportunity to have two cheeseburgers for dinner. I guess saner thoughts prevailed because I decided to let him have the damn burger-but he’d have to eat it quickly, because I had a plan.

I was going to take my little friend and perform an immediate relocation, like some sort of mouse witness protection program. Without opening the bag, I swiftly made my way out the door and started to walk down the block. I was looking for the first open sewer grate, into which I would toss my cholesterol saturated friend. I don’t want to hear from any bleeding-heart mouse lovers either -- he was eating my cheeseburger!

After a few minutes I came across one and dropped the bag on top of it. I can’t remember if I gave the bag a stomp for good measure, but that may be just wishful hindsight on my part. I swept the bag into the open sewer and at once both cheered my victory and mourned the loss of my second cheeseburger and an indeterminate number of innocent french-fries.

I felt a small sense of accomplishment as I walked back home, and I believe that I adjusted my posture accordingly. It was only when I was within a few hundred feet of my apartment that I noticed my car was gone. At first that fact had failed to register. You know the way:

"Hey, your car is gone."

"No it?s not."

I couldn’t really be sure if it were true, or if I were suffering from some sort of post-rodent traumatic stress disorder. It was probably when I stood in the pile of glass where my car should have been that I accepted the truth. Looking back, I don’t know if it was vindictiveness or just sheer stupidity that caused the thief to break the window of a car whose door was wide open. Perhaps it’s just part of his M.O. and who am I to question the procedures of such an obvious professional anyway?

Incidentally, I didn’t have a telephone either -- too expensive, and besides, who would call me anyway? So off I went to the closest payphone which was in the parking lot of a Dunkin’ Donuts about 12 blocks away. I managed to make it there in one piece and called the police to report my car stolen. They wanted to dispatch a car to come and talk to me, and I have to admit that I did feel the slightest bit funny asking the police to meet me at a Dunkin’ Donuts -- but I did anyway.

After telling the officers what I knew -- which wasn’t much, as I purposely left out the whole mouse-in-the-bag thing, figuring there would be little interest in that particular segment of my evening -- they asked me if I needed a ride anywhere. I looked in my pocket and rolled my last 90 cents around in my hand.

"Yea," I said, "can you take me to McDonalds please?"

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