This Location of Unknown Possibilities by Brett Josef Grubisic Page A

Americans, literally scabby off-Main prostitutes bartering orifices for tiny rocks of crack, and park denizens he’d catch sight of during a late night’s ramble. The guilt by association discomforted him.
    The doubts surfaced infrequently, and proved ultimately therapeutic. For their duration, Jake thought over his would-be degeneration logically, backing steadily away from the cliff’s edge. Perspective had its uses. Side by side, he judged, no epic divide stood between 24 / 7 nights of TV with Honey Bear, the cubs, and a bowl or two of microwave popcorn and the codger at a department store toilet playing with a limp tool and waiting hours on end for action. They were the same species of pleasure-seeking, give or take, and each capable of sinking into the dull and imprisoning habit of going through the motions: the tubby, sedated, and glazed-eyed couch potato family laughing in perfect time to laugh-track cues and the inflamed, bat-eared satyr: flip sides of the same coin.
    The main difference? One had acquired lower pariah standing than the other.
    Anybody ever alive was born with the same potential; Jake never doubted it. Appetite for pleasure, a truth of existence, wound through strands of DNA. Who could argue with that? The billions—trillions, maybe, if you threw in porn—shelled out by generations of moviegoers gave jury-galvanizing ­testimony.
    At a handful of off-the-wagon scenarios Jake had concluded that management presented the only true challenge. He possessed a ferocious sweet tooth that he kept in check because of the looming potential to become an insatiable urge, the fix a trial and error discovery. Allowing an overload holiday now and then throughout the year—a feeding frenzy of pastries or sex, and, years ago, the typical range of nightclub intoxicants—was surefire, he’d learned, a gratifying hedonistic release that while addressing the commands of brain chemistry didn’t totally cave to its every demand. For the rest of the time, Jake found a routine walking of the proverbial dog kept systems in shape but well rested and less prone to ripping up the furniture.
    If asked, he’d confidently assert that self-denial actually served as a salve on the fears of others—uptight puritans! And based on mirror time during visceral mornings-after, he’d also admit frequent indulgence came at too steep a price. The body had set limits. And he wanted no part in the ballooning beer-batter midriff and drooping man-breast phenomenon of peers. Or worse. As for waking with a pounding headache next to a stranger in a messy unfamiliar room: the bloom was long off that rose. One remedy of pungent medicinal shampoo and hurriedly buzz-cut pubes had led to a nervous dread of bed bugs and other skin crawlers. Better to skip the nosebleed or headache or artless exit-eyeing conversation and sleep in the laundered oasis of the bedroom for which he made regular mortgage payments.
    Balance , everything in moderation , know your limits , those tried and true maxims floated up whenever Jake found himself up late at night—groin humming the urgent tune of its constant fervour—and prepared to drive somewhere for unknown exploits and, with luck, eventual gratifying spurts. Pace yourself . Avoid remorse .
    2 .
    A s Jake slowed at the Pet Superstore and Big Box Factory Outlet intersection he saw the flow of traffic streams merging. No surprise there, the story nearly identical Monday through Friday. He checked the phone. The first response to “Quick Service?” contained no photo and two words: “Ur stats?” Jake deleted it. He’d like to smack any guy who asked dumb-ass questions, especially when he posted the answer as clear as day. The second and third replies exhibited similar asinine traits. Waiting for the green light, he irritably powered-down the tempting screen. Pursuit exasperated him some days, he’d readily admit.
    Approaching the studio grounds,