Boogie In The Real World

The wild and weird worlds one creates for themselves can be very addicting things. Over the past few months, I've been living the dream. Every day waking up, turning on an aged and beaten computer, and donning the uniform of the Boogie Man. Writer, coinessuer, and musician extrodinare. He's the one people deal with, who's music is on constant repeat on some of your favorite websites, and the person who reads all those amusing comments that come in throughout the days. And while the pay sucks, it's worth the lack of any real payday to live the dream.

Still, there is the guy who takes over once that computer turns off. The quiet and soft-spoken kid who spends nights worried about things he can't control. I try hard to keep him out of these tales, since the happenings that go on in his life aren't very interesting, and can frankly be a bit annoying.

Still, his role in all this is a necessary one. He's the responsible one. The guy who pays the bills, who will make that long half-dead drive to work some day, the guy who's on time and dedicated to whatever paying task is in front of him.

Recently, it was him who needed to be out in the world. Work was calling, real work. None of the "make noise and think up some funny shit" con that I've been running for awhile now. Nope, that sort with bosses and taxes and all that gibberish. As such, it was time to let the mild-mannered alter ego out on the town.

It was an unusual thing to be dealing with the real people again. Average citizens, concerned mostly with paying the mortgage and doing what's right for the kiddies. People who don't know, and are better off not knowing what an infamous little prick I'm making myself out to be. My job on ths night is to smile, answer questions thoughtfully and enthusiastically, trying hard to stay on topic. No telling it like it is tonight. These people don't want my opinions on the sad state of the music industry, or whatever bad programming I saw on television that just needed to be spoken about. We're here for the kids, and to pitch a program that's based on their enthusiasm for a lot of time and money spent. As such, I must be on the best behavior, a trait I have seemingly forgotten how to do locked away in Mello-Drama.

And I have a supervisor to answer to no less. This isn't my show. I don't run it, didn't coordinate it, and have nothing to do with it's execution other than to be here. It's a sensation I had actually forgotten, not being the last say in things. The fear of reprisals for work shoddily done hit me like a speeding Hummer. You walk a tightrope for the Big Cheese. So long as he or she is happy,you keep getting paid. And payment, is paramount in the real world. For my duration on the job, I felt as though parts of my mind must be unplugged entirely. Entire sections of brain were left disconnected, cables flailing in the wind, begging to be reconnected. I don't much like holding back anymore, and I actually get a little nauseous now that I have to.

Dealing with my colleagues doesn't make things any easier. Suffice to say, this isn't they typical rabble I run with. This is a hand-picked bunch, representing the standards of the elite and the snobbish. A bunch I never cared for when I had to deal with them, and in my long absence from things, have become even harder to cope with. I had gotten very used to dealing with the blood n' guts artists who can polish a turd into something magnificent. That wacky bunch who thrive best when left with piles of crap, who have sacrificed friends, family, and time to do what they do. The whole lot of us share an unspoken language when discussing our bodies of work, knowing that some shit has hit the fan for us to be here talking like this.

Such a language doesn't exist in this place. These people are the sort who complain about having to be in the boonies for days at a time. Of the strange brown semi-edibles in the greasy spoons of the nameless counties in this state. The pain and agony of having to drink gas station coffee instead of that name brand novelty fare they've grown so accustomed to. Poor bastards.

I can't talk to them for any great length of time. I've seen enough in my time to know that their idea of "bottom of the barrel" barely fondles the iceberg. I keep my focus on the job. Dealing with every person who comes in, painfully contorting my face into one of those "smiles" everyone always raves about. I keep a firm eye on the clock on my cell phone, counting down the minutes. A strange sensation to be sure, since I can't seem to find enough time in the day to be the Boogie Man. But here I sit for just two hours, and the clock can't run out quick enough.

But time, as it always does, goes by. I have earned my freedom, and a few extra dimes to contribute to the cause. My drive away is fast and vicious, fearful of any kind of magnetism that might pull me back to that godforsaken place. I badly want to get back to normal.

What scares me most is that what I have done tonight might lead to something more serious. 40 hours a week, salary, all those fine words that most people can't wait to hear, they put the fear of death into me. If two hours of minding my manners has caused me this much agony, What will happen if spend a third of my day doing it?

I suppose I'll adapt, like any other hardworking decent soul out there. Head down, running lean, waiting for the second when the clock plays nice and you can remove that icky persona that you need to pay the rent. That moment when you can don your true self and step out into the world. Perhaps this will be good for me. I've had a good chunk of time to figure myself out. I know who I am, and I know how much shit I'm willing to take for any man's cause. Maybe it's time to take that newfound identity and thrust it into the real world and try, just try to not lose my head in the process.