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Monday, January 20, 2014

Dodge Neon

What the fuck has happened?  Shadows come alive on my wall from the fan turning above my head.  Spin and click, wobble and move.....this fan creates life in my midnight room.  Elephants juggle beach balls on their nose. Boo! Jokers with white face paint laugh with palms wide open, making my eyes close for a slight second....before reopening. The change of wind from my slightly cracked window turns the circus show on my wall to a more scenic adventure.  Mountains of high, surrounding roads of long, as yellow lines flash as the AC blows.  Windows down and sun hitting the right side of my face....I can feel it now laying on my mattress in place.  Gas station stops while YouTube plays on my phone, a fast look at Steiner winning gold before my gas pump clicked with aggression. I seem to always feel a click away from one day making it big, lifting big and achieving elephant size dreams.  A dollar in my pocket, as gas money came from bottles of exchange.  My white dodge neon cried as the door opened, the smell of worn breaks made my eyes water, cover your nose sweetie, this car is going under.  My body weak.... my mind pockets broke as my attention moves on.

"Welcome to T.G.I.Fridays," I would say.  A big smile on my face that soon turned eyes shut as life prostitution becomes sound.  Selling my dreams to a door at 2 AM became steady and bound.  My life seemed fucked, this was fact.  The cold air whistling through my bedroom window reminded me of this time way back.  Opening doors for others as mine stayed shut.  Weightlifting videos played on my dirty clothes stunk like piss.  My bedroom wall became filled with moving parts, all that somehow were magically put together for me to write this diary I call this blog.  The Orchestra plays a story of long.

"I got 5 sweetie,!" I would yell from the broken apartment on the bad side of Sac.  Loud bass pumping against all four walls as cars outside sat on blocks and windows laced with locks.  Shots at night kept us up, as noodle of top filled our cups.  "I got 5!," I would yell from the bedroom closet.  Scattered clothes laid out like someone opened a cargo plane door.  My wife's eyes opened like the door at Fridays as a giant leap and a hug fell onto my arms, we spun around the room until we became weak, sweat dripped from our foreheads from the hunt that we called pocket searching. So broke......finding money in some month old jeans made for an overwhelming lump in our throats.  Joy was an McDonald's dollar menu made for an early thanksgiving feast.  Our bikes took us over the bridge to dinner we pedaled.....this meal will make us lift bigger weight than ever......and once Fridays pays me our training will spike like no other.  We even had some left over change to buy a monster energy drink that we shared that day was like no other.

Survival not to survive......but survival to stay alive......Weightlifting.

Random fucking jobs we would work, almost taking turns being the pimp.  Waiting for my wife outside the mall at 1 AM made my mind fucking spin.  What the flying fuck were we doing in this town?  Is weightlifting worth all this waiting around?  Training was great, but the life style fucking sucked.  I felt like a prostitute waiting to get fucked.  My wife entered the neon of broke, smell still so bad I would rather go back to blowing coke.  She cried as her boss was a dick....I guess this mother fucker was yelling at her once again.  This anger ran high, as my motivation to win the Weightlifting National title became overwhelmingly dyer.  I would do anything to get us out of this shit hole life!  I banged the steering wheel as spit came flying out of my dry hungry mouth.  A lock on our door...........this is where our lives hit the floor. Two months late on the rent meant living on the car floor.  Team USA to be on the moon, for my national title packed up and moved to Mars.  The shadows on my wall were now dancing devils.....skeletons of some sort as they played their fiddles.....I was fucked......

I let my wife down and my family.  This weightlifting journey left me in a pile of shit.  Now homeless and empty with no food or place to shit.  Random bathrooms for washing, for even thinking about training became daunting.  So mad at the world road rage became worse. Middle fingers never went down almost as a curse.  This led to me punching an athlete at Sac high, I guess the kid was 18 years was I supposed to know.  Parting with Doherty and Jackie Mah.....was one of the hardest things this journey had to offer.  To this day I feel this day I feel awful.  Now homeless and broke, no place to train, considered reckless and wild in my weightlifting family I became.

Months dragged on, working at the Nutrishop taking out the garbage and cleaning labels I was.  Jon fucking North......before Jon Fucken North.  Chatter of training talked all around me, as people never once noticed me.  College drop out living in a dodge neon.......bum of society....scum of the Earth.  I swept those floors solid 'til my arms fell off.  I kept thinking about my wife being yelled at by her dick boss at the mall.  I was angry but steady, I was sad but fierce.  I was down but not out.....I was defeated but not dead.  The one thing that kept me going was  You think we stopped? Fuck you.  Once I picked up the bar at Sac State with Ben Claridad I never put it down.  Do you hear me world! Do you hear me society! Fuck you! You might have punched me in the fucken might have kicked me when I was down......but I am still MOTHER FUCKEN HERE YOU MOTHER FUCKER!  I still trained. On the bus I road to the Power House Gym in Sacramento.  With the money we made I paid that monthly fucken bill, I slammed bars still!  Loafs of bread we would steal....only to eat for training to one day hopefully become.........champions.

His hat laid low, blue and beat up.  His jeans tight and his legs out to the side, in a stance that looked like the Eiffel Tower.  Not lifting at this local meet he stood, way in the back of the room. My piss smelled clothes and my change chattering pockets approached.  My body skinny and my dreams big. I asked him a question about training. 

Donny Shankle Replied.............

1 comment:

  1. Sad story with serious imagery. You've come along way, it seems.