Shane ODell - An Orchestrated Mistake

An Orchestrated Mistake

Shane ODell

Nibiru Publishing

An Orchestrated Mistake. Copyright 2021 by Shane ODell. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, email .

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

ISBN: 978-1-7775962-2-4

Cover Design: Sandika S. Sathsara

To order copies of An Orchestrated Mistake or to contact Shane ODell, please visit www.anorchestratedmistake.com.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all those who stood by me.

Thank you.

Contents

Once upon a time, there was a fool so arrogant he believed the laws in the court of health did not apply to him.

This is the story of an escape from a life sentence.

I never needed an alarm clock to wake up. My cravings for a cigarette would always trigger that. Reaching out for the ashtray on the nightstand before I was fully conscious, Id often send it crashing to the floor, the smell of the rising plume of ash signaling the beginning of another day for me, Nicholas Alexander.

Shit, I mumbled, peering over the edge of the bed before reaching down, fingering through the shards of broken glass and pulling out the remnants of last nights cigarette before clamping it between my teeth and rolling out of bed.

I stopped in the kitchen to get the pot of coffee out of the fridge and poured myself a cup, adding the last dregs from the milk carton before continuing to the bathroom. There, I took the unlit butt out of my mouth long enough to brush my teeth before returning it to its rightful home between my lips.

Opening the bathroom mirror, I looked for my razor and spotted my old glucose meter on the top shelf, looking like an old, abandoned radiator in a junkyard. Wondering if the thing still worked, I fumbled through a drawer, found some old test strips, and shoved one in. Stabbing my finger with a tired lance, I drew a drop of blood, touched it to the strip, and waited for the verdict. Not even a number appeared. It just read: HI.

Whatever, I scoffed before lighting the butt and slapping shaving cream on my face.

I got dressed for work in my best Mets t-shirt and pair of blue jeans Id purchased for a couple of bucks from the wardrobe department during the wrap of our last film. I stood in my bedroom, gulping down the last of my cold coffee, eyeing the ashes and broken glass ashtray beside my bed. I really must clean that up when I get home tonight, I thought. If not tonight, then definitely by next weekend. And so another workweek had begun.

If I walked to the subway at the right pace, Id have just enough time to have an entire cigarette, grab a coffee and paper at the corner bodega, and then dash up the stairs to the station platform.

Riding the subway into Manhattan from my apartment in Brooklyn took the better part of an hour, but once seated, I wasted no time opening my paper to the only two sections worth reading. The first was The Boondocks comic strip. Nothing amused me more than reading about ten-year-old Huey Freeman sticking it to the man. Ive been trying for forty-four years to stick it to the man, but all it ever got me was an audit. After my daily dose of The Boondocks, Id locate the other section that gave me hope: the sports page. I am always optimistic I would relish my team's victory, but they imploded in the late stages of the game as usual. I am greeted with the usual disappointment my team is once again on the outside looking in mere weeks after training camp. I swear if people didnt read the damn paper before work, theyd be in much better moods by the time they got there.

No matter how much time I give myself to commute somewhere in New York, the MTA always finds a way to have me running late. Changing subways at Penn Station, I dash through the morning throngs of commuters, zigzagging between cops, Wall Street types, and families from the Midwest standing on the station platform with their mouths agape trying to make sense of it all. I dont try to make sense of anything anymore. I much prefer to just focus on my work. That way, I dont have to listen to the uncertainty in my head.

Id barely taken any time off from work since moving to New York from Vancouver nine years ago. In fact, since arriving in the Big Apple, I had barely been outside of the five boroughs. Unless, of course, you want to count the time I made a wrong turn in a camera truck and ended up in Weehawken, New Jersey. I think you have to stumble around a place for more than five minutes before you can claim to have visited there, and time spent waiting in line at a fast-food drive-thru doesnt count.

I guess Im guilty of not having much balance in my life. Especially during those last few years in New York. How can you tell when work has become an unbalanced obligation if youre working at something you love? Im far too busy wrestling with lifes illusions to answer that.

I popped up out of the subway at 23rd & 7th Avenue. There, Sonuss electric guitar immediately assaulted my ears. Sonus is the Latin word for noise, but before you mistake me for a wimpy chain-smoking intellectual, you should probably know that the only other Latin term I know is Tempus Fugit, or time flies. Anyway, Sonus, this sixty-something fellow, is there on the sidewalk every morning banging away on his electric guitar. No rhythm, no melody, just noise. I rarely, if ever, saw anyone throw any money into his open guitar case. No one ever stopped to listen. Mostly they were just hurrying. After all, most New Yorkers seem mandated to hurry. I just figured they were hurrying to get away from Sonus. On occasion, I'd toss a buck or two into his guitar case, but I think I was just paying him to stop that awful noise. He never did. Sonus would just smile and nod, then continue banging on that abused electric guitar as Id hurry my way down 23rd toward 6th Avenue to get my breakfast before my head exploded.

Hey, buddy, the old-timer in his food cart would call out to me as I got close. The usual?

Yeah, but Im hungry this morning. Can you give me that chocolate donut too? I asked, pointing to one behind the glass. Yeah, the one with the sprinkles, I added as he reached for the donut.

Two Sweetn Low, half-and-half, he confirmed, dropping the donut in a bag and pouring a coffee.

You know it.

I do!

Id been stopping at the Puerto Rican old timers food cart since we moved our offices up from the Meatpacking District to Chelsea a few years ago. Every morning, I got the same thing: two eggs and cheese on a croissant with ketchup and pepper and a large coffee with two Sweetn Lows and half-and-half. I liked just showing up at the cart without engaging in the idle chit-chat that usually goes with placing an order. Idle chit-chat is lifes speed bumps. Its not that I like going to any restaurant or vendor where theyre so familiar with me they know me by name. Id hate that too, as then Id have to engage in that idle chit-chat. No, I like to patronize a place where Im just familiar enough for them to know what to offer me when I arrive. To them, my name is Buddy or Dude or Fella. Ill even accept Sir if Im not feeling too ancient. I love anonymity. Its probably why I was a goalie in hockey as a kid. I got to wear a mask.

With my order in a bag safely tucked under my arm, I darted against the light across 6th Avenue while lighting another cigarette and inhaling my donut. The fading car horns behind me indicated the danger had passed and I completed another safe crossing, so Id amble down 22nd Street toward my office, happily munching and inhaling.

Hola! Laura would announce, entering the office with a single dog leash draped over her shoulders. Looking up from my desk, Id acknowledge her as two sets of paws scrambled for traction on the hardwood floor.