In the immortal words of Chrissie Hynde, welcome to the human race. Seems to be shit we do. And, again, in conjunction with, or immediately following other stupid shit.

How we deal with our lameness, I feel, reveals a lot about our character. If we curl up into a little ball and plop myself down in the nearest hole, I’m probably not going to get very far. If I get pissed off, track down the origin of when I started sucking so hard, it might be a bit more productive. But only a bit.

See, finding the why, I’ve learned, is valuable only insofar as tackling certain types of issues. That analysis can suck up as much time as Facebook, if you’re not careful. While it can be useful, it can equally result in being thwarted by your own stellar ability to maintain inert. Really. We human beings, as a modern society, have created whole technologies to allow us to become better equipped to be lazy. We’ve got it down to a science. Good job, guys.

And we fine little in this world as daunting as personal development. Mister P says you’re perpetually existing in one of two states — growing and evolving, or rotting and stagnating. Binary. One or the other.

While I felt I’ve made a hell of a lot of progress in my life over the last two years — 6 months, especially — it’s never enough. There’s always more that could be done. Might improve everything else if I just ….

And filling in that blank, achieving that potential goal seems a truly daunting task. I see all I’ve just harvested, and I’ve got to turn right back around and sow more? I haven’t even enjoyed the fruits of this labour — and I’ve got to make preparations already for more?

Damn. Rotting or growing. Obvious which one you don’t want to be.

It seems a lot to ask of someone, and yet, this is how he lives his life. Situation normal. I truly haven’t met another person that does. But then, few people are as effective, debt-free, well-invested, mentally sound and emotionally stable. Clearly, there’s some merit to this theory.

It’s also fucking daunting. I don’t even know where to begin.

I remember the red trellis most of all. There wa nothing particularly lovely about it; not in colour, nor shape. It sort of waved in and out of the heavier bar that connected the railing to the balustrades. Iron, but not wrought. And very, very red. I was enjoying the place: a condominium near the Los Angeles beach cities, with a weird, uber-comfortable stadium-like theatre composed entirely of soft, squishy leather materials, a decent sized screen, and a little full-serve wet bar on either side. The man next to me, who was balding and in his later forties, was shaking his head, looking kinda grim. “What’s wrong?” I asked, patting the leather. He just needed to relax.

“You can’t honestly pretend like you like this place,” he said, matter-of-factly, not moving his hand from his chin; beady-eyes seemingly fixed upon some vague spot of the large screen. I don’t recall what it was showing, but I’m sure it was some popular film. The day was breathtaking; not too warm, or too cold. Blue sky and breezy. I felt like I was wandering in a coastal artist’s painting that was constructed out of sheer love of the scene itself, regardless of commission.

“Really, what’s not to like about this place?” I said, gesturing somewhat wildly, being suddenly reminded of the presence of my gun, tucked safely away out of sight — as well as my entire purpose for being there. I knew instantly it wasn’t for him.

Still refusing to sit down, he ran his hand alongside the outer railing, as if he was expecting dust to be on his fingertips. When it wasn’t, he shifted position, but remained as sour as before. “It’s practically falling apart,” he said. “It needs more work than anybody can imagine.”

This time, I rose up and stood next to him, growing tired of his antics. Folding my arms, I looked right at him. “Oh, I’m not so sure. I’ll bet your brother has a very good imagination.” He read my tone even before I realised it, and all that it implied. I suddenly knew I wasn’t sleeping with the man of which I spoke; but maybe, I had wanted to.

“You’d know.” He said coldly. I chose to ignore it. “Oh, well.” He chose to cross this room off as well, scribbling some kind of derrogatory statement next to it on a line before flipping the page back on the clipboard in his hands. He grimaced as we began walking from the room. “Disgusting.”

I rolled my eyes, my attention quickly finding itself back on this man’s brother, who I knew in some way. Oddly enough, I think he was my client. But I still had no idea what I even did; or why I needed a gun to do it. It felt like getting stuck in a weird version of Memento with a female protagonist. “You need to quit being so hard on him,” I heard myself say with some surprise as he turned to me, rather annoyed. But, despite how I felt inside, it didn’t show on the surface. I remained calm, and somewhat flippant. “After all, he’s your younger brother. And your dad’s just died.” And you’ve taken him out of being in control of the will, I wanted to say, but kept it to myself. We just stood there looking at each other for a moment. In an equally strange way, I suddenly saw so deeply into his eyes what he’d wanted to do to me. How he’d wanted to hurt, objectify, and humiliate me. I didn’t know yet if these were things he wanted for himself, or he was just a misogynist. I also didn’t seem all that interested in finding out. His impetus for wanting to slap me along with a number of other things dissipated, and we kept walking down the breezeway with the red trellis at my left. I ran my fingers along it. (No dust.) I chuckled a little at it; he, however, was unamused.

“It isn’t his business,” he began. “Not his world. He wouldn’t know the first thing to do with a place like this. Hell, he’d probably think it’s fine and treat it that way. The real money’s in the land here.”

Blah, blah, blah. “You mean, because it is fine.”

He turned and looked at me. Again. And turned back. “Anyway. He doesn’t know the first thing about real estate. Or life.” He stopped short and looked right at me. “Can you honestly see him with a million-dollar investment? This is a lot more than that.

“Yes?” I said. Somehow, I knew that he was driven to make money; but not exactly money-driven. Not like this brother.

“Then I feel sorry for you.” He called me my name. I don’t remember it.

“Not as sorry as I feel for you.” He made some sort of what he thought was a witty retort. I wasn’t paying attention. In fact, there was a large number of people gathering by the indoor pool, and strange markings on the concrete around it.

“What the hell?” He grabbed the intermittent combination of thin hair and scalp, and I instantly knew he was feigning his surprise. It was time for me to find his brother.

I did, finally, after making it down the stairs and ditching the elder sibling. He has a really nice smile, and I try to stay on task, but I feel like the world’s just slowed down; I’m nicely woozy. He’s going over plans with another gentleman, as well as notes of whatever craziness has just gone down here. But somehow, I don’t even need the facts — even though I know we’re going to review them and make a better, more informed decision based from the data we receive. He pulls away from the other guy, I’m guessing a shareholder, and I feel infinitely protective of him. I even get this odd sense that I’m there to protect him. And suddenly, I think I know why, and from what. “What’s up?” he asks, though his face betrays his real concern instantly. He almost says the words, but doesn’t.

Instead, I do. “I’ve spoken with your brother.” He nods; he knows. Surveying the markings on the page in front of him peripherally, he still looks at me. But I know now that he knows. And I know he’s scared. After all, it’s harsh news learning when someone wants to kill you; it’s even worse when it involves family — those you’re supposed to love and trust, and who should be doing the same for you. He won’t say it aloud, or here. That’d be unwise. Instead, he does say: “Oh, God. I’m so stupid.” It’s quiet, and almost an afterthought, his eyes not straying from mine.

“We had to be sure.”

“And … you are?” The glimmer of hope. I see it a lot.

“Yes.”

We’re pretty sure where it’s going to happen, too. These pieces of paper left scattered across the pool area indicating cranial and brain anatomy, with locational words and short phrases paint a rather bizarre picture. There can be things worse than death; like being a vegetable for the rest of your life. Kept alive only by machines and other such artificial instrumentation. Sounds like hell to me, paved with the best of intentions, in many cases. But not all. Should he have been shot in a particular area of the brain by a truly precise shooter, he may not die; just instead be paralysed or otherwise fully incapacitated. His power of attorney would go straight to his older brother, and the younger’s wishes would become a non-issue. He’d lose everything. I’d like to explain this to him now, but clearly, not here.

“Some guys have all the luck, don’t they?”

It breaks my heart to see him so upset, but filled with warmth to watch how he handles it with such grace and strength. I know he’s crumbling inside. If it were possible, my eyes would embrace him, shielding him from any harm. I hope I’m not falling for him. That just complicates everything.

All of a sudden, everyone’s ducking; including me. It stands to reason, since bullets are sailing through the air, and I’m just desperately hoping that one doesn’t find purchase in any of us. Especially his brain. Still, we all know what’s happening. Amid the gasps and shouts, we both crouch.

“What the fuck?”

“Stay down!” I tell him as loudly as I can without being a full-on yell. It ends as quickly as it began, but it feels much longer. Especially if you’re not used to this sort of thing. I’m getting the idea, however, that I am. He’s not. And just as suddenly, I know where I have to go. Unfortunately, he’s chosen now as a good time to do something other than listen to me. Like run. I call out his name, but he’s already found some sort of relatively secure place outside of immediate firing range. For now. I take off shortly after him, heading toward the place I know I should be going. Where I’ll be safe, because, somehow, I’ve done this before. This is all becoming deja vu all over again, as they say. (Which, anyone that knows anything understands is terribly redundant.) But I don’t have time for that now.

I’m in a hallway with doors on either side. There’s a lot of white here. Modern. It fits in with the rest of the building, but seems like it’s been refurbished. Good ol’ cosmetic face-lift. I idly wonder how new it is, and what it cost. I still can’t see him. God, I just hope he’s all right. I make a dive into one of the empty rooms which is softly lit so that the white glows with an almost eerie ambiance. Strangely unnatural for something that should seem so peaceful. I see where I’m supposed to go; a horizontally-oriented cabinet. But it’s a bit too high, and I’m not getting in there fast enough. And, shit, I know they’re coming. Having taken a shot at him — and missed — someone’s not going to be happy. That means they’ll be less cautious the next time around, and taking out everyone directly associating with him. That means me.

I’m looking around just a bit longer before I realise …

“Fuck! I’m not going to make this.”

So, I wake myself up. Now, I’m lying there with everything so fresh and recent in my memory, my mind just spinning, spinning. It stays with me through my evening coffee and up to the point of my writing this. It’s faded now — not as sharp and vivid, but it’s still there.

That red trellis. And the smell of leather.