One Riot’s Envy
By Mark Augustini
I see.
I see what others have. Their homes. Their cars. Their clothes. I see them working in fun jobs. I see them eating and drinking in beautiful places with beautiful people. Look at where they live — bricks, glass, smooth streets and manicured yards. They live like Kings of old. They live better than Kings past. Why are their lives so much better than mine? They drink the good liquor from the shelves on top. They don’t even look at the price tags when they shop. That special something catches their eye at the mall — they like, they buy. If they are sick, they don’t choose between delaying the rent and going to the 24-hour clinic; they do not choose between eviction and losing a job. They dance on the backyard pool deck while I juggle the phone and electric bills in my crappy little apartment. How do I get from here to there?
I look at myself in the mirror. Are we not alike? I have two arms, two eyes, two legs. I love. I laugh. I cry. How? How is it possible that we even breath the same air? My life experience and their life experience side-by-side, same planet but opposite poles. They are alien to me and I to them. I look at myself in the mirror. They must see me as pathetic, primitive, and my simple life meaningless. My meager existence must seem offensive and dirty. No wonder they look away when they see me — I would too, if our roles were reversed.
Pausing, is this true? Do these god-like creatures really look down on me? Sure, they do. Get a job! Gross, how can you live like that? I’m glad I’m not like you. No wait. No one has ever said these words to me. Why am I ashamed and embarrassed by them? They don’t even speak to me — that’s why I’ve never personally heard these words. They don’t look at me and, truly I wish I had never looked at them. I was happier the day before my eyes opened. Nevertheless, I see. I see you.
I feel.
What is this feeling in my gut? It is not joy, not even close. It’s something else. Is it awe? I am in complete admiration of what I see. Yes, admiration but something darker. What do you call admiration when it’s shaded something darker? Seriously, why can’t I just be happy for them? They are living the life that I myself wish to have. Why can’t I just smile and whisper, “Wow, I’m so glad someone is living the dream.” I don’t whisper and my lips turn downwards.
Is there not even the tiniest amount of happiness for them? If I imagine them enjoying their VR games, their barbeque feasts, or their trip to the Caymans. I imagine what it must be like to lavish gifts on your family, your lover, your friends. Come with me this weekend, we’re doing a surprise party for so-and-so in the Caymans! I should feel something good, right? Something good. But I don’t.
I feel something ugly. It’s there in my stomach, something menacing. It feels like being rejected by my crush. Do you want to go to prom with me? She laughs a reply, “No, not with you. No, I would rather stay home.” I hate her! A moment before I admired her, now I hate her. That’s what I feel — something between desire and admiration and hate. I’m not invited. I can’t play. This is not for you. Just then, I feel a match strike in my gut and a small and steady black flame sparks to life. It’s dark but I am warmed by the glow of envy and hurt. The flame flickers back and forth, envy and anger.
I want.
It’s not fair! You are a human, I am a human. It’s not fair that I live without and you live with! I want your homes. I want your cars. I want your clothes. God damn it — I want to travel and see the world. I want to feast and dance. I want to feel powerful and fearless. I want to be beautiful and god-like. If you can live this way, then so can I — so must I! I want equity. Surely you agree that this as the only just course. Think about it:
What is not fair, is not right.
What is not right, is not just.
You, experiencing life your way and me experiencing it my way is not fair and therefore not just. What is society’s purpose, if not to correct the injustices of this world. I want my correction!
I don’t care anymore about the why things are as they are. Yes, you’ve sacrificed. Yes, you’ve worked hard. So the f*** what! The black flame doubles in size. You should be concerned about my life — I didn’t get the breaks you got. I didn’t go to your fancy schools. I didn’t even graduate. I just want equality. I just want what you want. So, yeah maybe I’m greedy for the things you have!
You have it. I want it. I’ll take it, if you don’t give it. Oh my God. What I am I feeling? I hate them. I hate them for living like I want to live. How is that even possible?
The flame is changing and growing, from black to green, from match head to campfire blazing. See it casting shadows onto the forest of my potential. The shadows confirm my feelings. The shadows nod in agreement and whisper — “So what. So what, if we are Envy — it’s still not fair, and still not just, you want, they have — take it.”
I justify.
What kind of a human being smashes windows and punches old men without provocation, without warning? What kind of people burn other’s property and beat down anyone who tries to stop the crime? Who yells into a megaphone, monotone sing-songs of hate? What kind of a person refuses to let another speak?
Easy…trust your emotions. Project your greed and paint them all black as night — evil, worthless, and despicable power-hungry Fascists! They are the greedy ones, the fascist pigs! Slow down, let your rage simmer — first words, then emotions, then action. They don’t deserve what you want. That makes you pissed off. Are you mad enough? Say it.
You think you’re better than us because you’re richer, prettier, thinner, more popular, fill-in-the-blanker! Well, you’re not — everything you have, you stole — you stole from ME! The whole system, yeah, the whole damn thing — is built on thievery, oppression and deceit! What you have you didn’t earn — you don’t even deserve to live!
Yes! Yes! Bravo, that’s perfect…. now are ready take the next step, take it!
I take.
I walk up to the department store window; burning green rage, I smash it with a brick! I take the jewelry from among the shards of glass, cutting my finger as I put them in my pocket. My innocent blood dribbles to the sidewalk. I’m not a criminal, I’m a warrior, a soldier on the front lines in a war against a wicked injustice.
I see some old guy and his family pull up to the stop sign, raging red, I pick up my brick — my justice stone, and I smash against the window. I hear the woman scream in fear — yeah, you should be afraid lady because I’m the dirty pathetic ugly alien monster you tried to avoid!
Her husband revved the engine, I block his path — he could easily mow me down, but he doesn’t. So, I smash again! From the backseat I hear a baby cry. I do not feel for it or them — they are the enemy — they are what’s wrong with the world, with my world. My life is their fault. I start to smash again. The cops are coming — I grind my teeth and turn and run with the shadows, flickering away into the night — soon I will not have to run.
