FADE IN
A calendar. The date...December 31, 1999. The X's had been marked on each day that had passed. December 27, 28, 29.....30....only one day remained. The last. Time of day? 11:30 PM, Eastern time.
Replacing the still of the calendar, a clip of Times Square in Manhatten, New York appeared. People standing outside, nudging against each other, tryng to find warmth amongst one another while they stood; while they waited, for the long anticipated and highly known event of the dropping of the ball by countdown, to usher in a new year. But not on that day would an event as simple as a new year bring the excitement level to it's maximun as was being displayed. Something else was on the brim, something on teh minds of those, and even others who were scattered across the world. This was not simply a new year. This was the rolling of the digits. The ending to a one thousand year reign. And, the beginning of a new and fresh setting for a countless number of people. This was the year two thousand. And it was upon everyone.
The scene faded away from the moment of united excitement, and into a scene of a fire, burning dimly in a garbage can. The walls, that of an alley, accepted the light of the fire as shadows on the wall. Each moving to an unknown rythem, as they danced back and forth across the cold, hard brick. The floor of the alley was adorned with newer pieces of newspapers, some blaring news of the world coming to it's end in less than a week. Others, still, disregarding the warning by some, told of the newest technologies that would be availible in the new century. One thing they both had in common, though . . . they centered around the one day that no one could escape, the day that lied ahead for every living person. The passing from the 1900's into the 2000's.
In the far corner of the alley, positioned atop a crate, and beside another propped crate, sat a figure. One knee was raised, the knee itself showing through the rip on the very bend of his pants. A black long sleeve sweatshirt, the hood being tossed down and draped across his back, was what we wore. A beenie, black and bearing the name of "Bad Religion, was pulled down atop his ears and brown eyebrows. The darkness in and surrounding his eyes was shaded partially by the beenie. The ear rings had been taken out this day. Only a lip ring was in. The man was Zero . . . back in his "home," the Gilman Alley, inside of Berkeley, California. Local time? 8:30 PM.
He looked up into the cloud covered sky, the smoke from his breath slowly rising up into the night air. The cigarette in his hand burned, slowly reaching down to the filter. He received one last inhale from it, before tossing it aside into the dark shadow extending through to the street. Slowly, positioning himself once again atop the crate, he opened his mouth. But, hanging on a breath, he closed it slowly. He took his gaze from straight ahead, and looked aloof, into the shadow where he had just thrown his burning cigarette. And then, slowly, he opened his mouth once more . . .
"A single step, a fraction of time. That is what the people of the world celebrate today. Not an event that carries over for weeks to months, but a mere second of time. Today, as we cross over from the 1900's, into the 2000's, with just the mere tick of a common pedestrians clock. But why is the celebration? Why do people celebrate a simple event as a change of time, a change that does nothing to further the existence and living confitions of this planet. In itself, it is but a mere second in time, just like every other that passes through the scale everyday. So why is it looked upon as a great acheivement, something to praise?
Zero
"When people look upon the changing of years, the process is not viewed upon as a great moment to rectify things that led them to where they are today. When the changing of a century occurs, a small celebration is held. But still, the idea of changing what was past cannot be thought of. Only now, the changing of a Millennum, do people celebrate like never before. In their minds, the digits that trailed the 1 in the 1900's is gone. Away with those numbers is also the errors and wrong doings of their past. They see the complete refreshing of numbers as a chance to start over, such as their world just has."
Bringing his head back down to a frontal view, Zero lowers the brim of his beanie to even lower levels above his eyebrows. His eyes tighten, as if a glare had shown into them. A gush of wind creeps into the alley, blowing the fire from it's rythem for just a brief moment. Shadows passed back and forth across Zero's face, further darkening the gaze that his eyes are approaching. The tightening in his eyes continued somewhat with the sudden flare of the fire . . .
"The thought of new millennum resolutions. A chance to brush away everything that they had done along with the discarded 9, 1, and 1. But are they looking for a fresh, clean start? Or are they simply trying to escape a past that they will always be associated with? I look to the latter for the solid explanation.
Zero
"For now, they have not only ended a streak of horror, but they are beginning in an age whose numbers, repeated three times, bears the lowest level of importance of any number availible. It is the number zero. Magnified thrice, it adds irony to the whole situation of finding a new start amongst the beginning of what is already the lowest level of acceptable digits. Some may laugh, some may argue, but no one can dipute what the digit "zero" represents . . .
"For it's entire existence, people have always associated zero with being the lower tier. It was given to numbers to fill in space, and add the value to them. But it was never put at the beinning of a series of numbers. It was never awarded a value on it's own merit. It was always dependant on others for it's value in this world. In fact, it is an understood number after decimals, but without the need to write it in to enforce that is actually apart of a value. For the entire time that the number system has been in effect, the letter zero has been at the very bottom, cast away without the slightest amount of respect. A value that stood for nothing on it's own, and something that would never amount to anything greater than what it already was."
Pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the front sleeve of his hooded sweatshirt, Zero retrieves one. A quick lighting of it, and he exhales the small amount of smoke. Taking his gaze back to an aloof angle, looking up at the brim of the alley walls, he once again begins to speak . . .
"To which my moniker, the name associated with the person that I am, comes from. The digit, a single digit. Not a marketing ploy. Not a gimmick handed to me to corner a market that was lacking in a certain field. No, the name "Zero" came from much further back. Back to my childhood, at the very young age of only 14, was I first referred to as Zero.
Zero
"I had been Lint Douglas, seemingly abanondoned by my parents during the infant stages of my life. That was the beginning. And from then, the years would stack atop each other . . . and my background could never escape from me. I was not emotionally capable to understand what had happened at such a young age, but subliminally, the facts stayed with me. I was not able to shake them, and they stuck out on me like a yellow pair of pants . . . visible for all the world to see. Did they not only see it, but they reacted to my insecurities of a clouded past. I did not know why I was the way I was. I could not understand why I couldn't fit in to the different groups. Was I strange? Was I unordinary? I didn't feel any different. But the ridicule, the abusive words of my peers concerning my past, and the fact that I was tossed from orphanage to orphanage in Berkeley while growing up through elementary school, was more than I could take.
"In junior high, someone was always secluded. In order for a growing child to feel important amongst others, he feels the need to "put down" someone he feels who is below him and an easy target, just so he can gain acceptance by others. Maybe that was why I was not able to succeed amongst these kids . . . I couldn't do that to people. But the ones who opposed me didn't have a problem with it. As I was the source of a constant array of critism and jokes. Whether it be the fact of my choice of music that I had aquired while sitting outside the doors to the Gilman club, or even to the degree of how I chose the Gilman alley to escape the pressures of living a life that THEY had created that way, they would ridicule me. And from there, combining all of that with the fact of my clouded past and my unsure future, they labeled me as a "zero." And so, from that day, I was not known as Lint Douglas to anyone. I was simply known as Zero, the kid who is so availible for ridicule
"And so, the number has come back. The number that has no importance in numeric functions was now a noun. I was referred to as Zero from then on, but simply in spite to deter me from ever figuring I would, or could, retaliate against what they would choose to have of me. But, unlike the passive zero that remains invisible in front of single numbers, the passive zero that no one bothers to add after a decimal in whole numbers . . . I had come to a point where I would not be the whipping boy to help get others with their friends. It was that day that the zero was about to get it's own value."
Blowing a breath of cigarette smoke out, Zero paused. Slowly, he slid a finger underneath the front of his beanie, sliding it off and tossing it across the alley onto a pile of week-old papers. His hair was flattened out and a bright shade of bleached with black tips. The fire caught reflections off of his eyebrow ring. But Zero just massaged his forehead just slightly. Looking down onto the ground, as if wondering how he would continue, he could only do what he could do . . . he took a long, deep inhalation of his cigarette. Holding it in for an extended amount of time, he slowly exhaled, blowing the smoke up into the night air. Then, turning his face back down, a serious expression came over his face . . .
"I retaliated. I fought back. I couldn't take it. I had to fight back. I couldn't allow them to dominate me like they had for so long. I even took it to the point of accepting the name of "Zero" as my new name. What better way to show to them that I simply did not care what they thought, then to use their number one form of humiliation as something I cherished? And I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the feeling of paying someone back. With each punch that I connected on someone who felt the need to say something to me, I enjoyed it. It was years of hatred coming out. And it was retribution. Something that I would learn that I would have to do years later in my pro wrestling career.
Zero
Zero took one last drag from the cigarette, before tossing it, too, into the shadows that led out to the entry. He took a deep sigh, and then exhaled . . .
"In closing . . . the zero who was looked upon as simply a small step to step over . . . a person who was perceived as a literal zero in life . . . was soon the person who no one was quite sure about. Someone who had finally figured out who he was. It was just the other who people who were now uncertain, instead of laughing, of me. But that's ok . . .
Zero
" . . . because I have moved on past that, I think. And now, 2000 is upon us. A year signifying new starts, and the throwing away of old skeletons that lurk in people's closets. 2000 is the year for of the triple zero . . . the year for the Zeros . . . a resetting of time . . . a fresh start from what was before . . . it will be the year of zeros, for zeros . . . the year for Zero"
Slowly, Zero slid the beanie back down over his head, bringing it snugly against the line of his eyebrows. He paused for a moment, staring down at the ground, before moving once again. He stood to his feet, walking past the idle burning fire, and continued his walk into the shadow where he threw his burned cigarettes into . . . the shadow leading to the outside . . . and into the new millinium . . .
midi: "Infected" by Bad Religion
