He liked Fight Club: He could relate: Like Mr. Durden, he hadn’t received the superpowers that he was promised. He liked how the characters were furious because he was furious, too.
Promises were something he understood- didn’t always come through, made people work harder- but this one was a bit bigger. Maybe there was no something at the end, or you had to be rich to start with in order to get the something. Maybe the something had never existed outside of marketing studios.
In Fight Club, they fought.
His house, he realized, had been the viagra to offset his impotent rise through classes, that place to offset the feelings of being dominated and powerless by dominating something, someone, yourself, repeating the same abuse. It was known by the other inhabitants of the house that he was the man.
He knew from Bud commercials that there needed to be a man in each house, and a truck – he didn’t own the truck, but he had the Bud.
It was a nice feeling to open a cold beer and to let it glide cool into your belly by tilting back your head. Frustrations over this or that promise and who you were went blurry in orgasmic fuzz, something that you could only explain as, feels good.
You drank until stars fell to your lawn, called up from the minors to drink with Zeus.